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Title:  The Paris Sketch Book

Author:  William Makepeace Thackeray

August, 2001  [Etext #2768]


Project Gutenberg Etext The Paris Sketch Book, by W. M. Thackeray
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THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK

OF

MR. M. A. TITMARSH

by

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY



ESTES AND LAURIAT, BOSTON

Publishers



CONTENTS.


THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK.


An Invasion of France

A Caution to Travellers

The Ftes of July 

On the French School of Painting

The Painter's Bargain

Cartouche

On some French Fashionable Novels

A Gambler's Death

Napoleon and his System

The Story of Mary Ancel

Beatrice Merger

Caricatures and Lithography in Paris

Little Poinsinet

The Devil's Wager

Madame Sand and the new Apocalypse 

The Case of Peytel

Four Imitations of Branger

French Dramas and Melodramas

Meditations at Versailles




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 creditor, that an 
immediate settlement of your bill would be extremely inconvenient 
to him; your reply was, "Mon Dieu, Sir, let not that annoy you; if 
you want money, as a gentleman often does in a strange country, I 
have a thousand-franc note at my house which is quite at your 
service."

History or experience, Sir, makes us acquainted with so few actions 
that can be compared to yours,--an offer like this from a stranger 
and a tailor seems to me so astonishing,--that you must pardon me 
for thus making your virtue public, and acquainting the English 
nation with your merit and your name.  Let me add, Sir, that you 
live on the first floor; that your clothes and fit are excellent, 
and your charges moderate and just; and, as a humble tribute of my 
admiration, permit me to lay these volumes at your feet.

Your obliged, faithful servant,

M. A. TITMARSH.




ADVERTISEMENT TO THE FIRST EDITION.


About half of the sketches in these volumes have already appeared 
in print, in various periodical works.  A part of the text of one 
tale, and the plots of two others, have been borrowed from French 
originals; the other stories, which are, in the main, true, 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.




AN INVASION OF FRANCE.


Caesar venit in Galliam summ diligenti."


About twelve o'clock, just as the bell of the packet is tolling a 
farewell to London Bridge, and warning off the blackguard-boys with 
the newspapers, who have been shoving Times, Herald, Penny Paul-
Pry, Penny Satirist, Flare-up, and other abominations, into your 
face--just as the bell has tolled, and the Jews, strangers, people-
taking-leave-of-their-families, and blackguard-boys aforesaid, are 
making a rush for the narrow plank which conducts from the paddle-
box of the "Emerald" steamboat unto the quay--you perceive, 
staggering down Thames Street, those two hackney-coaches, for the 
arrival of which you have been praying, trembling, hoping, 
despairing, swearing--sw--, I beg your pardon, I believe the word 
is not used in polite company--and transpiring, for the last half-
hour.  Yes, at last, the two coaches draw near, and from thence an 
awful number of trunks, children, carpet-bags, nursery-maids, hat-
boxes, band-boxes, bonnet-boxes, desks, cloaks, and an affectionate 
wife, are discharged on the quay.

"Elizabeth, take care of Miss Jane," screams that worthy woman, who 
has been for a fortnight employed in getting this tremendous body 
of troops and baggage into marching order.  "Hicks!  Hicks! for 
heaven's sake mind the babies!"--"George--Edward, sir, if you go 
near that porter with the trunk, he will tumble down and kill you, 
you naughty boy!--My love, DO take the cloaks and umbrellas, and 
give a hand to Fanny and Lucy; and I wish you would speak to the 
hackney-coachmen, dear, they want fifteen shillings, and count the 
packages, love--twenty-seven packages,--and bring little Flo; 
where's little Flo?--Flo! Flo!"--(Flo comes sneaking in; she has 
been speaking a few parting words to a one-eyed terrier, that 
sneaks off similarly, landward.)

As when the hawk menaces the hen-roost, in like manner, when such a 
danger as a voyage menaces a mother, she becomes suddenly endowed 
with a ferocious presence of mind, and bristling up and screaming 
in the front of her brood, and in the face of circumstances, 
succeeds, by her courage, in putting her enemy to flight; in like 
manner you will always, I think, find your wife (if that lady be 
good for twopence) shrill, eager, and ill-humored, before, and 
during a great family move of this nature.  Well, the swindling 
hackney-coachmen are paid, the mother leading on her regiment of 
little ones, and supported by her auxiliary nurse-maids, are safe 
in the cabin;--you have counted twenty-six of the twenty-seven 
parcels, and have them on board, and that horrid man on the paddle-
box, who, for twenty minutes past, has been roaring out, NOW, SIR!--
says, NOW, SIR, no more.

I never yet knew how a steamer began to move, being always too busy 
among the trunks and children, for the first half-hour, to mark any 
of the movements of the vessel.  When these private arrangements 
are made, you find yourself opposite Greenwich (farewell, sweet, 
sweet whitebait!), and quiet begins to enter your soul.  Your wife 
smiles for the first time these ten days; you pass by plantations 
of ship-masts, and forests of steam-chimneys; the sailors are 
singing on board the ships, the bargees salute you with oaths, 
grins, and phrases facetious and familiar; the man on the paddle-
box roars, "Ease her, stop her!" which mysterious words a shrill 
voice from below repeats, and pipes out, "Ease her, stop her!" in 
echo; the deck is crowded with groups of figures, and the sun 
shines over all.

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, nurse-maids, and children 
predominate, of course, in English steamboats.  Such may be 
considered as the distinctive marks of the English gentleman at 
three or four and forty: two or three of such groups have pitched 
their camps on the deck.  Then there are a number of young men, of 
whom three or four have allowed their moustaches to BEGIN to grow 
since last Friday; for they are going "on the Continent," and they 
look, therefore, as if their upper lips were smeared with snuff.

A danseuse from the opera is on her way to Paris.  Followed by her 
bonne and her little dog, she paces the deck, stepping out, in the 
real dancer fashion, and ogling all around.  How happy the two 
young Englishmen are, who can speak French, and make up to her: and 
how all criticise her points and paces!  Yonder is a group of young 
ladies, who are going to Paris to learn how to be governesses: 
those two splendidly dressed ladies are milliners from the Rue 
Richelieu, who have just brought over, and disposed of, their cargo 
of Summer fashions.  Here sits the Rev. Mr. Snodgrass with his 
pupils, whom he is conducting to his establishment, near Boulogne, 
where, in addition to a classical and mathematical education 
(washing included), the young gentlemen have the benefit of 
learning French among THE FRENCH THEMSELVES.  Accordingly, the 
young gentlemen are locked up in a great rickety house, two miles 
from Boulogne and never see a soul, except the French usher and the 
cook.

Some few French people are there already, preparing to be ill--(I 
never shall forget a dreadful sight I once had in the little dark, 
dirty, six-foot cabin of a Dover steamer.  Four gaunt Frenchmen, 
but for their pantaloons, in the costume of Adam in Paradise, 
solemnly anointing themselves with some charm against sea-
sickness!)--a few Frenchmen are there, but these, for the most 
part, and with a proper philosophy, go to the fore-cabin of the 
ship, and you see them on the fore-deck (is that the name for that 
part of the vessel which is in the region of the bowsprit?) 
lowering in huge cloaks and caps; snuffy, wretched, pale, and wet; 
and not jabbering now, as their wont is on shore.  I never could 
fancy the Mounseers formidable at sea.

There are, of course, many Jews on board.  Who ever travelled by 
steamboat, coach, diligence, eilwagen, vetturino, mule-back, or 
sledge, without meeting some of the wandering race?

By the time these remarks have been made the steward is on the deck 
again, and dinner is ready: and about two hours after dinner comes 
tea; and then there is brandy-and-water, which he eagerly presses 
as a preventive against what may happen; and about this time you 
pass the Foreland, the wind blowing pretty fresh; and the groups 
on deck disappear, and your wife, giving you an alarmed look, 
descends, with her little ones, to the ladies' cabin, and you see 
the steward and his boys issuing from their den under the paddle-
box, with each a heap of round tin vases, like those which are 
called, I believe, in America, expectoratoons, only these are 
larger.

        .        .        .        .        .        .

The wind blows, the water looks greener and more beautiful than 
ever--ridge by ridge of long white rock passes away.  "That's 
Ramsgit," says the man at the helm; and, presently, "That there's 
Deal--it's dreadful fallen off since the war;" and "That's Dover, 
round that there pint, only you can't see it."  And, in the 
meantime, the sun has plumped his hot face into the water, and the 
moon has shown hers as soon as ever his back is turned, and Mrs.--
(the wife in general,) has brought up her children and self from 
the horrid cabin, in which she says it is impossible to breathe; 
and the poor little wretches are, by the officious stewardess and 
smart steward (expectoratoonifer), accommodated with a heap of 
blankets, pillows, and mattresses, in the midst of which they 
crawl, as best they may, and from the heaving heap of which are, 
during the rest of the voyage, heard occasional faint cries, and 
sounds of puking woe!

Dear, dear Maria!  Is this the woman who, anon, braved the jeers 
and brutal wrath of swindling hackney-coachmen; who repelled the 
insolence of haggling porters, with a scorn that brought down their 
demands at least eighteenpence?  Is this the woman at whose voice 
servants tremble; at the sound of whose steps the nursery, ay, and 
mayhap the parlor, is in order?  Look at her now, prostrate, 
prostrate--no strength has she to speak, scarce power to push to 
her youngest one--her suffering, struggling Rosa,--to push to her 
the--the instrumentoon!

In the midst of all these throes and agonies, at which all the 
passengers, who have their own woes (you yourself--for how can you 
help THEM?--you are on your back on a bench, and if you move all is 
up with you,) are looking on indifferent--one man there is who has 
been watching you with the utmost care, and bestowing on your 
helpless family the tenderness that a father denies them.  He is a 
foreigner, and you have been conversing with him, in the course of 
the morning, in French--which, he says, you speak remarkably well, 
like a native in fact, and then in English (which, after all, you 
find is more convenient).  What can express your gratitude to this 
gentleman for all his goodness towards your family and yourself--
you talk to him, he has served under the Emperor, and is, for all 
that, sensible, modest, and well-informed.  He speaks, indeed, of 
his countrymen almost with contempt, and readily admits the 
superiority of a Briton, on the seas and elsewhere.  One loves to 
meet with such genuine liberality in a foreigner, and respects 
the man who can sacrifice vanity to truth.  This distinguished 
foreigner has travelled much; he asks whither you are going?--where 
you stop? if you have a great quantity of luggage on board?--and 
laughs when he hears of the twenty-seven packages, and hopes you 
have some friend at the custom-house, who can spare you the 
monstrous trouble of unpacking that which has taken you weeks to 
put up.  Nine, ten, eleven, the distinguished foreigner is ever 
at your side; you find him now, perhaps, (with characteristic 
ingratitude,) something of a bore, but, at least, he has been most 
tender to the children and their mamma.  At last a Boulogne light 
comes in sight, (you see it over the bows of the vessel, when, 
having bobbed violently upwards, it sinks swiftly down,) Boulogne 
harbor is in sight, and the foreigner says,--

The distinguished foreigner says, says he--"Sare, eef you af no 
'otel, I sall recommend you, milor, to ze 'Otel Betfort, in ze 
Quay, sare, close to the bathing-machines and custom-ha-oose.  Good 
bets and fine garten, sare; table-d'hte, sare,  cinq heures; 
breakfast, sare, in French or English style;--I am the 
commissionaire, sare, and vill see to your loggish."

. . . Curse the fellow, for an impudent, swindling, sneaking French 
humbug!--Your tone instantly changes, and you tell him to go about 
his business: but at twelve o'clock at night, when the voyage is 
over, and the custom-house business done, knowing not whither to 
go, with a wife and fourteen exhausted children, scarce able to 
stand, and longing for bed, you find yourself, somehow, in the 
Htel Bedford (and you can't be better), and smiling chambermaids 
carry off your children to snug beds; while smart waiters produce 
for your honor--a cold fowl, say, and a salad, and a bottle of 
Bordeaux and Seltzer-water.

        .        .        .        .        .        .

The morning comes--I don't know a pleasanter feeling than that of 
waking with the sun shining on objects quite new, and (although you 
have made the voyage a dozen times,) quite strange.  Mrs. X. and 
you occupy a very light bed, which has a tall canopy of red 
"percale;" the windows are smartly draped with cheap gaudy calicoes 
and muslins; there are little mean strips of carpet about the tiled 
floor of the room, and yet all seems as gay and as comfortable as 
may be--the sun shines brighter than you have seen it for a year, 
the sky is a thousand times bluer, and what a cheery clatter of 
shrill quick French voices comes up from the court-yard under the 
windows!  Bells are jangling; a family, mayhap, is going to Paris, 
en poste, and wondrous is the jabber of the courier, the postilion, 
the inn-waiters, and the lookers-on.  The landlord calls out for 
"Quatre biftecks aux pommes pour le trente-trois,"--(O my 
countrymen, I love your tastes and your ways!)--the chambermaid is 
laughing and says, "Finissez donc, Monsieur Pierre!" (what can they 
be about?)--a fat Englishman has opened his window violently, and 
says, "Dee dong, garsong, vooly voo me donny lo sho, ou vooly voo 
pah?"  He has been ringing for half an hour--the last energetic 
appeal succeeds, and shortly he is enabled to descend to the 
coffee-room, where, with three hot rolls, grilled ham, cold fowl, 
and four boiled eggs, he makes what he calls his first FRENCH 
breakfast.

It is a strange, mongrel, merry place, this town of Boulogne; the 
little French fishermen's children are beautiful, and the little 
French soldiers, four feet high, red-breeched, with huge pompons on 
their caps, and brown faces, and clear sharp eyes, look, for all 
their littleness, far more military and more intelligent than the 
heavy louts one has seen swaggering about the garrison towns in 
England.  Yonder go a crowd of bare-legged fishermen; there is the 
town idiot, mocking a woman who is screaming "Fleuve du Tage," at 
an inn-window, to a harp, and there are the little gamins mocking 
HIM.  Lo! these seven young ladies, with red hair and green veils, 
they are from neighboring Albion, and going to bathe.  Here comes 
three Englishmen, habitus 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, consort, be they cobblers or dukes.  Don't 
give us, cries the patriotic reader, any abuse of our fellow-
countrymen (anybody else can do that), but rather continue in that 
good-humored, facetious, descriptive style with which your letter 
has commenced.--Your remark, sir, is perfectly just, and does honor 
to your head and excellent heart.

There is little need to give a description of the good town of 
Boulogne, which, haute and basse, with the new light-house and the 
new harbor, and the gas-lamps, and the manufactures, and the 
convents, and the number of English and French residents, and the 
pillar erected in honor of the grand Arme d'Angleterre, so called 
because it DIDN'T go to England, have all been excellently 
described by the facetious Coglan, the learned Dr. Millingen, and 
by innumerable guide-books besides.  A fine thing it is to hear the 
stout old Frenchmen of Napoleon's time argue how that audacious 
Corsican WOULD have marched to London, after swallowing Nelson and 
all his gun-boats, but for cette malheureuse guerre d'Espagne and 
cette glorieuse campagne d'Autriche, which the gold of Pitt caused 
to be raised at the Emperor's tail, in order to call him off from 
the helpless country in his front.  Some Frenchmen go farther 
still, and vow that in Spain they were never beaten at all; indeed, 
if you read in the Biographie des Hommes du Jour, article "Soult," 
you will fancy that, with the exception of the disaster at 
Vittoria, the campaigns in Spain and Portugal were a series of 
triumphs.  Only, by looking at a map, it is observable that Vimeiro 
is a mortal long way from Toulouse, where, at the end of certain 
years of victories, we somehow find the honest Marshal.  And what 
then?--he went to Toulouse for the purpose of beating the English 
there, to be sure;--a known fact, on which comment would be 
superfluous.  However, we shall never get to Paris at this rate; 
let us break off further palaver, and away at once. . . .

(During this pause, the ingenious reader is kindly requested to pay 
his bill at the Hotel at Boulogne, to mount the Diligence of 
Laffitte, Caillard and Company, and to travel for twenty-five 
hours, amidst much jingling of harness-bells and screaming of 
postilions.)

        .        .        .        .        .        .

The French milliner, who occupies one of the corners, begins to 
remove the greasy pieces of paper which have enveloped her locks 
during the journey.  She withdraws the "Madras" of dubious hue 
which has bound her head for the last five-and-twenty hours, and 
replaces it by the black velvet bonnet, which, bobbing against your 
nose, has hung from the Diligence roof since your departure from 
Boulogne.  The old lady in the opposite corner, who has been 
sucking bonbons, and smells dreadfully of anisette, arranges her 
little parcels in that immense basket of abominations which all old 
women carry in their laps.  She rubs her mouth and eyes with her 
dusty cambric handkerchief, she ties up her nightcap into a little 
bundle, and replaces it by a more becoming head-piece, covered with 
withered artificial flowers, and crumpled tags of ribbon; she looks 
wistfully at the company for an instant, and then places her 
handkerchief before her mouth:--her eyes roll strangely about for 
an instant, and you hear a faint clattering noise: the old lady has 
been getting ready her teeth, which had lain in her basket among 
the bonbons, pins, oranges, pomatum, bits of cake, lozenges, 
prayer-books, peppermint-water, copper money, and false hair--
stowed away there during the voyage.  The Jewish gentleman, who has 
been so attentive to the milliner during the journey, and is a 
traveller and bagman by profession, gathers together his various 
goods.  The sallow-faced English lad, who has been drunk ever since 
we left Boulogne yesterday, and is coming to Paris to pursue the 
study of medicine, swears that he rejoices to leave the cursed 
Diligence, is sick of the infernal journey, and d--d glad that the 
d--d voyage is so nearly over.  "Enfin!" says your neighbor, 
yawning, and inserting an elbow into the mouth of his right and 
left hand companion, "nous voil."

NOUS VOIL!--We are at Paris!  This must account for the removal of 
the milliner's curl-papers, and the fixing of the old lady's 
teeth.--Since the last relais, the Diligence has been travelling 
with extraordinary speed.  The postilion cracks his terrible whip, 
and screams shrilly.  The conductor blows incessantly on his horn, 
the bells of the harness, the bumping and ringing of the wheels and 
chains, and the clatter of the great hoofs of the heavy snorting 
Norman stallions, have wondrously increased within this, the last 
ten minutes; and the Diligence, which has been proceeding hitherto 
at the rate of a league in an hour, now dashes gallantly forward, 
as if it would traverse at least six miles in the same space of 
time.  Thus it is, when Sir Robert maketh a speech at Saint 
Stephen's--he useth his strength at the beginning, only, and the 
end.  He gallopeth at the commencement; in the middle he lingers; 
at the close, again, he rouses the House, which has fallen asleep; 
he cracketh the whip of his satire; he shouts the shout of his 
patriotism; and, urging his eloquence to its roughest canter, 
awakens the sleepers, and inspires the weary, until men say, What a 
wondrous orator!  What a capital coach!  We will ride henceforth in 
it, and in no other!

But, behold us at Paris!  The Diligence has reached a rude-looking 
gate, or grille, flanked by two lodges; the French Kings of old 
made their entry by this gate; some of the hottest battles of the 
late revolution were fought before it.  At present, it is blocked 
by carts and peasants, and a busy crowd of men, in green, examining 
the packages before they enter, probing the straw with long 
needles.  It is the Barrier of St. Denis, and the green men are the 
customs'-men of the city of Paris.  If you are a countryman, who 
would introduce a cow into the metropolis, the city demands twenty-
four francs for such a privilege: if you have a hundredweight of 
tallow-candles, you must, previously, disburse three francs: if a 
drove of hogs, nine francs per whole hog: but upon these subjects 
Mr. Bulwer, Mrs. Trollope, and other writers, have already 
enlightened the public.  In the present instance, after a momentary 
pause, one of the men in green mounts by the side of the conductor, 
and the ponderous vehicle pursues its journey.

The street which we enter, that of the Faubourg St. Denis, presents 
a strange contrast to the dark uniformity of a London street, where 
everything, in the dingy and smoky atmosphere, looks as though it 
were painted in India-ink--black houses, black passengers, and 
black sky.  Here, on the contrary, is a thousand times more life 
and color.  Before you, shining in the sun, is a long glistening 
line of GUTTER,--not a very pleasing object in a city, but in a 
picture invaluable.  On each side are houses of all dimensions and 
hues; some but of one story; some as high as the tower of Babel.  
From these the haberdashers (and this is their favorite street) 
flaunt long strips of gaudy calicoes, which give a strange air of 
rude gayety to the street.  Milk-women, with a little crowd of 
gossips round each, are, at this early hour of morning, selling the 
chief material of the Parisian caf-au-lait.  Gay wine-shops, 
painted red, and smartly decorated with vines and gilded railings, 
are filled with workmen taking their morning's draught.  That 
gloomy-looking prison on your right is a prison for women; once it 
was a convent for Lazarists: a thousand unfortunate individuals of 
the softer sex now occupy that mansion: they bake, as we find in 
the guide-books, the bread of all the other prisons; they mend and 
wash the shirts and stockings of all the other prisoners; they make 
hooks-and-eyes and phosphorus-boxes, and they attend chapel every 
Sunday:--if occupation can help them, sure they have enough of it.  
Was it not a great stroke of the legislature to superintend the 
morals and linen at once, and thus keep these poor creatures 
continually mending?--But we have passed the prison long ago, and 
are at the Porte St. Denis itself.

There is only time to take a hasty glance as we pass: it 
commemorates some of the wonderful feats of arms of Ludovicus 
Magnus, and abounds in ponderous allegories--nymphs, and river-
gods, and pyramids crowned with fleurs-de-lis; Louis passing over 
the Rhine in triumph, and the Dutch Lion giving up the ghost, in 
the year of our Lord 1672.  The Dutch Lion revived, and overcame 
the man some years afterwards; but of this fact, singularly enough, 
the inscriptions make no mention.  Passing, then, round the gate, 
and not under it (after the general custom, in respect of triumphal 
arches), you cross the boulevard, which gives a glimpse of trees 
and sunshine, and gleaming white buildings; then, dashing down the 
Rue de Bourbon Villeneuve, a dirty street, which seems interminable,
and the Rue St. Eustache, the conductor gives a last blast on his
horn, and the great vehicle clatters into the court- yard, where the
journey is destined to conclude.

If there was a noise before of screaming postilions and cracked 
horns, it was nothing to the Babel-like clatter which greets us 
now.  We are in a great court, which Hajji Baba would call the 
father of Diligences.  Half a dozen other coaches arrive at the 
same minute--no light affairs, like your English vehicles, but 
ponderous machines, containing fifteen passengers inside, more in 
the cabriolet, and vast towers of luggage on the roof: others are 
loading: the yard is filled with passengers coming or departing;--
bustling porters and screaming commissionaires.  These latter seize 
you as you descend from your place,--twenty cards are thrust into 
your hand, and as many voices, jabbering with inconceivable 
swiftness, shriek into your ear, "Dis way, sare; are you for ze' 
'Otel of Rhin?' 'Htel de l'Amiraut!'--'Hotel Bristol,' sare!--
Monsieur, 'l'Htel de Lille?'  Sacr-rrr '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, breakfasts, and waiters; if you would 
have plentiful dinners, and are not particular (as how should you 
be?) concerning wine; if, in this foreign country, you WILL have 
your English companions, your porter, your friend, and your brandy-
and-water--do not listen to any of these commissioner fellows, but 
with your best English accent, shout out boldly, "MEURICE!" and 
straightway a man will step forward to conduct you to the Rue de 
Rivoli.

Here you will find apartments at any price: a very neat room, for 
instance, for three francs daily; an English breakfast of eternal 
boiled eggs, or grilled ham; a nondescript dinner, profuse but 
cold; and a society which will rejoice your heart.  Here are young 
gentlemen from the universities; young merchants on a lark; large 
families of nine daughters, with fat father and mother; officers of 
dragoons, and lawyers' clerks.  The last time we dined at 
"Meurice's" we hobbed and nobbed with no less a person than Mr. 
Moses, the celebrated bailiff of Chancery Lane; Lord Brougham was 
on his right, and a clergyman's lady, with a train of white-haired 
girls, sat on his left, wonderfully taken with the diamond rings of 
the fascinating stranger!

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'hte in the city, go, O stranger! 
to the "Htel des Princes;" it is close to the Boulevard, and 
convenient for Frascati's.  The "Htel 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 "Htel de 
Lille," which may be described as a "second chop" Meurice.

If you are a poor student come to study the humanities, or the 
pleasant art of amputation, cross the water forthwith, and proceed 
to the "Htel Corneille," near the Odon, or others of its species; 
there are many where you can live royally (until you economize by 
going into lodgings) on four francs a day; and where, if by any 
strange chance you are desirous for a while to get rid of your 
countrymen, you will find that they scarcely ever penetrate.

But above all, O my countrymen! shun boarding-houses, especially if 
you have ladies in your train; or ponder well, and examine the 
characters of the keepers thereof, before you lead your innocent 
daughters, and their mamma, into places so dangerous.  In the first 
place, you have bad dinners; and, secondly, bad company.  If you 
play cards, you are very likely playing with a swindler; if you 
dance, you dance with a ---- person with whom you had better have 
nothing to do.


Note (which ladies are requested not to read).--In one of these 
establishments, daily advertised as most eligible for English, a 
friend of the writer lived.  A lady, who had passed for some time 
as the wife of one of the inmates, suddenly changed her husband and 
name, her original husband remaining in the house, and saluting her 
by her new title.




A CAUTION TO TRAVELLERS.


A million dangers and snares await the traveller, as soon as he 
issues out of that vast messagerie which we have just quitted: and 
as each man cannot do better than relate such events as have 
happened in the course of his own experience, and may keep the 
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 
gayeties that go on--just for once, just to see what they are like?  
How many, when the horrible gambling dens were open, did resist a 
sight of them?--nay, was not a young fellow rather flattered by a 
dinner invitation from the Salon, whither he went, fondly 
pretending that he should see "French society," in the persons of 
certain Dukes and Counts who used to frequent the place?

My friend Pogson is a young fellow, not much worse, although 
perhaps a little weaker and simpler than his neighbors; and coming 
to Paris with exactly the same notions that bring many others of 
the British youth to that capital, events befell him there, last 
winter, which are strictly true, and shall here be narrated, by way 
of warning to all.

Pog, it must be premised, is a city man, who travels in drugs for a 
couple of the best London houses, blows the flute, has an album, 
drives his own gig, and is considered, both on the road and in the 
metropolis, a remarkably nice, intelligent, thriving young man.  
Pogson's only fault is too great an attachment to the fair:--"the 
sex," as he says often "will be his ruin:" the fact is, that Pog 
never travels without a "Don Juan" under his driving-cushion, and 
is a pretty-looking young fellow enough.

Sam Pogson had occasion to visit Paris, last October; and it was in 
that city that his love of the sex had liked to have cost him dear.  
He worked his way down to Dover; placing, right and left, at the 
towns on his route, rhubarb, sodas, and other such delectable wares 
as his masters dealt in ("the sweetest sample of castor oil, smelt 
like a nosegay--went off like wildfire--hogshead and a half at 
Rochester, eight-and twenty gallons at Canterbury," and so on), and 
crossed to Calais, and thence voyaged to Paris in the coup of the 
Diligence.  He paid for two places, too, although a single man, and 
the reason shall now be made known.

Dining at the table-d'hte at "Quillacq's"--it is the best inn on 
the Continent of Europe--our little traveller had the happiness to 
be placed next to a lady, who was, he saw at a glance, one of the 
extreme pink of the nobility.  A large lady, in black satin, with 
eyes and hair as black as sloes, with gold chains, scent-bottles, 
sable tippet, worked pocket-handkerchief, and four twinkling rings 
on each of her plump white fingers.  Her cheeks were as pink as the 
finest Chinese rouge could make them.  Pog knew the article: he 
travelled in it.  Her lips were as red as the ruby lip salve: she 
used the very best, that was clear.

She was a fine-looking woman, certainly (holding down her eyes, and 
talking perpetually of "mes trente-deux ans"); and Pogson, the 
wicked young dog, who professed not to care for young misses, 
saying they smelt so of bread-and-butter, declared, at once, that 
the lady was one of HIS beauties; in fact, when he spoke to us 
about her, he said, "She's a slap-up thing, I tell you; a reg'lar 
good one; ONE OF MY SORT!"  And such was Pogson's credit in all 
commercial rooms, that one of HIS sort was considered to surpass 
all other sorts.

During dinner-time, Mr. Pogson was profoundly polite and attentive 
to the lady at his side, and kindly communicated to her, as is the 
way with the best-bred English on their first arrival "on the 
Continent," all his impressions regarding the sights and persons he 
had seen.  Such remarks having been made during half an hour's 
ramble about the ramparts and town, and in the course of a walk 
down to the custom-house, and a confidential communication with the 
commissionaire, must be, doubtless, very valuable to Frenchmen in 
their own country; and the lady listened to Pogson's opinions: not 
only with benevolent attention, but actually, she said, with 
pleasure and delight.  Mr. Pogson said that there was no such thing 
as good meat in France, and that's why they cooked their victuals 
in this queer way; he had seen many soldiers parading about the 
place, and expressed a true Englishman's abhorrence of an armed 
force; not that he feared such fellows as these--little whipper-
snappers--our men would eat them.  Hereupon the lady admitted that 
our Guards were angels, but that Monsieur must not be too hard upon 
the French; "her father was a General of the Emperor."

Pogson felt a tremendous respect for himself at the notion that he 
was dining with a General's daughter, and instantly ordered a 
bottle of champagne to keep up his consequence.

"Mrs. Bironn, ma'am," said he, for he had heard the waiter call her 
by some such name, "if you WILL accept a glass of champagne, ma'am, 
you'll do me, I'm sure, great honor: they say it's very good, and a 
precious sight cheaper than it is on our side of the way, too--not 
that I care for money.  Mrs. Bironn, ma'am, your health, ma'am."

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 hasking whether you were connected with 
his lordship; that's hall:" and my friend here grew dreadfully red, 
and began twiddling his long ringlets in his fingers, and examining 
very eagerly the contents of his plate.

"Oh, no: Madame la Baronne means Mistress Baroness; my husband was 
Baron, and I am Baroness."

"What! 'ave I the honor--I beg your pardon, ma'am--is your ladyship 
a Baroness, and I not know it? pray excuse me for calling you 
ma'am."

The Baroness smiled most graciously--with such a look as Juno cast 
upon unfortunate Jupiter when she wished to gain her wicked ends 
upon him--the Baroness smiled; and, stealing her hand into a black 
velvet bag, drew from it an ivory card-case, and from the ivory 
card-case extracted a glazed card, printed in gold; on it was 
engraved a coronet, and under the coronet the words


    BARONNE DE FLORVAL-DELVAL,

      NE DE MELVAL-NORVAL.

                 Rue Taitbout.


The grand Pitt diamond--the Queen's own star of the garter--a 
sample of otto-of-roses at a guinea a drop, would not be handled 
more curiously, or more respectfully, than this porcelain card of 
the Baroness.  Trembling he put it into his little Russia-leather 
pocket-book: and when he ventured to look up, and saw the eyes of 
the Baroness de Florval-Delval, ne de Melval-Norval, gazing upon 
him with friendly and serene glances, a thrill of pride tingled 
through Pogson's blood: he felt himself to be the very happiest 
fellow "on the Continent."

But Pogson did not, for some time, venture to resume that sprightly 
and elegant familiarity which generally forms the great charm of 
his conversation: he was too much frightened at the presence he 
was in, and contented himself by graceful and solemn bows, deep 
attention, and ejaculations of "Yes, my lady," and "No, your 
ladyship," for some minutes after the discovery had been made.  
Pogson piqued himself on his breeding: "I hate the aristocracy," 
he said, "but that's no reason why I shouldn't behave like a 
gentleman."

A surly, silent little gentleman, who had been the third at the 
ordinary, and would take no part either in the conversation or in 
Pogson's champagne, now took up his hat, and, grunting, left the 
room, when the happy bagman had the delight of a tte--tte.  The 
Baroness did not appear inclined to move: it was cold; a fire was 
comfortable, and she had ordered none in her apartment.  Might 
Pogson give her one more glass of champagne, or would her ladyship 
prefer "something hot."  Her ladyship gravely said, she never took 
ANYTHING hot.  "Some champagne, then; a leetle drop?"  She would! 
she would!  O gods! how Pogson's hand shook as he filled and 
offered her the glass!

What took place during the rest of the evening had better be 
described by Mr. Pogson himself, who has given us permission to 
publish his letter.


"QUILLACQ'S HOTEL (pronounced KILLYAX), CALAIS.

"DEAR TIT,--I arrived at Cally, as they call it, this day, or, 
rather, yesterday; for it is past midnight, as I sit thinking of a 
wonderful adventure that has just befallen me.  A woman in course; 
that's always the case with ME, you know: but oh, Tit! if you COULD 
but see her!  Of the first family in France, the Florval-Delvals, 
beautiful as an angel, and no more caring for money than I do for 
split peas.

"I'll tell you how it occurred.  Everybody in France, you know, 
dines at the ordinary--it's quite distangy to do so.  There was 
only three of us to-day, however,--the Baroness, me, and a gent, 
who never spoke a word; and we didn't want him to, neither: do you 
mark that?

"You know my way with the women: champagne's the thing; make 'em 
drink, make 'em talk;--make 'em talk, make 'em do anything.  So I 
orders a bottle, as if for myself; and, 'Ma'am,' says I, 'will you 
take a glass of Sham--just one?'  Take it she did--for you know 
it's quite distangy here: everybody dines at the table de hte, 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 vive le joy, as they say.  The Baroness says I 
speak French charmingly, she talks English as well as you or I.

"Your affectionate friend,

"S. Pogson."


This letter reached us duly, in our garrets, and we engaged such an 
apartment for Mr. Pogson, as beseemed a gentleman of 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 gentlemen of his 
profession (and what more delightful?) must be aware, that, when 
all the rest of mankind look hideous, dirty, peevish, wretched, 
after a forty hours' coach-journey, a bagman appears as gay and 
spruce as when he started; having within himself a thousand little 
conveniences for the voyage, which common travellers neglect.  
Pogson had a little portable toilet, of which he had not failed to 
take advantage, and with his long, curling, flaxen hair, flowing 
under a seal-skin cap, with a gold tassel, with a blue and gold 
satin handkerchief, a crimson velvet waistcoat, a light green cut-
away coat, a pair of barred brickdust-colored pantaloons, and a 
neat mackintosh, presented, altogether, as elegant and distingu an 
appearance as any one could desire.  He had put on a clean collar 
at breakfast, and a pair of white kids as he entered the barrier, 
and looked, as he rushed into my arms, more like a man stepping out 
of a band-box, than one descending from a vehicle that has just 
performed one of the laziest, dullest, flattest, stalest, dirtiest 
journeys in Europe.

To my surprise, there were TWO ladies in the coach with my friend, 
and not ONE, as I had expected.  One of these, a stout female, 
carrying sundry baskets, bags, umbrellas, and woman's wraps, was 
evidently a maid-servant: the other, in black, was Pogson's fair 
one, evidently.  I could see a gleam of curl-papers over a sallow 
face,--of a dusky nightcap flapping over the curl-papers,--but 
these were hidden by a lace veil and a huge velvet bonnet, of which 
the crowning birds-of-paradise were evidently in a moulting state.  
She was encased in many shawls and wrappers; she put, hesitatingly, 
a pretty little foot out of the carriage--Pogson was by her side in 
an instant, and, gallantly putting one of his white kids round her 
waist, aided this interesting creature to descend.  I saw, by her 
walk, that she was five-and-forty, and that my little Pogson was a 
lost man.

After some brief parley between them--in which it was charming to 
hear how my friend Samuel WOULD speak, what he called French, to a 
lady who could not understand one syllable of his jargon--the 
mutual hackney-coaches drew up; Madame la Baronne waved to the 
Captain a graceful French curtsy.  "Adyou!" said Samuel, and waved 
his lily hand.  "Adyou-addimang."

A brisk little gentleman, who had made the journey in the same 
coach with Pogson, but had more modestly taken a seat in the 
Imperial, here passed us, and greeted me with a "How d'ye do?"  He 
had shouldered his own little valise, and was trudging off, 
scattering a cloud of commissionaires, who would fain have spared 
him the trouble.

"Do you know that chap?" says Pogson; "surly fellow, ain't he?"

"The kindest man in existence," answered I; "all the world knows 
little Major British."

"He's a Major, is he?--why, that's the fellow that dined with us at 
Killyax's; it's lucky I did not call myself Captain before him, he 
mightn't have liked it, you know:" and then Sam fell into a 
reverie;--what was the subject of his thoughts soon appeared.

"Did you ever SEE such a foot and ankle?" said Sam, after sitting 
for some time, regardless of the novelty of the scene, his hands in 
his pockets, plunged in the deepest thought.

"ISN'T she a slap-up woman, eh, now?" pursued he; and began 
enumerating her attractions, as a horse-jockey would the points of 
a favorite animal.

"You seem to have gone a pretty length already," said I, "by 
promising to visit her to-morrow."

"A good length?--I believe you.  Leave ME alone for that."

"But I thought you were only to be two in the coup, you wicked 
rogue."

"Two in the coopy?  Oh! ah! yes, you know--why, that is, I didn't 
know she had her maid with her (what an ass I was to think of a 
noblewoman travelling without one!) and couldn't, in course, 
refuse, when she asked me to let the maid in."

"Of course not."

"Couldn't, you know, as a man of honor; but I made up for all 
that," said Pogson, winking slyly, and putting his hand to his 
little bunch of a nose, in a very knowing way.

"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 expressive way, as "slap-up."  
She had received him quite like an old friend; treated him to eau 
sucre, of which beverage he expressed himself a great admirer; and 
actually asked him to dine the next day.  But there was a cloud 
over the ingenuous youth's brow, and I inquired still farther.

"Why," said he, with a sigh, "I thought she was a widow; and, hang 
it! who should come in but her husband the Baron: a big fellow, 
sir, with a blue coat, a red ribbing, and SUCH a pair of mustachios!"

"Well," said I, "he didn't turn you out, I suppose?"

"Oh, no! on the contrary, as kind as possible; his lordship said 
that he respected the English army; asked me what corps I was in,--
said he had fought in Spain against us,--and made me welcome."

"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 remote quarter 
of the Luxembourg, and it is not to be expected that such a 
fashionable fellow as Sam Pogson, with his pockets full of money, 
and a new city to see, should be always wandering to my dull 
quarters; so that, although he did not make his appearance for some 
time, he must not be accused of any luke-warmness of friendship on 
that score.

He was out, too, when I called at his hotel; but once, I had the 
good fortune to see him, with his hat curiously on one side, 
looking as pleased as Punch, and being driven, in an open cab, in 
the Champs Elyses.  "That's ANOTHER tip-top chap," said he, when 
we met, at length.  "What do you think of an Earl's son, my boy?  
Honorable Tom Ringwood, son of the Earl of Cinqbars: what do you 
think of that, eh?"

I thought he was getting into very good society.  Sam was a dashing 
fellow, and was always above his own line of life; he had met Mr. 
Ringwood at the Baron's, and they'd been to the play together; and 
the honorable gent, as Sam called him, had joked with him about 
being well to do IN A CERTAIN QUARTER; and he had had a game of 
billiards with the Baron, at the Estaminy, "a very distangy place, 
where you smoke," said Sam; "quite select, and frequented by the 
tip-top nobility;" and they were as thick as peas in a shell; and 
they were to dine that day at Ringwood's, and sup, the next night, 
with the Baroness.

"I think the chaps down the road will stare," said Sam, "when they 
hear how I've been coming it."  And stare, no doubt, they would; 
for it is certain that very few commercial gentlemen have had Mr. 
Pogson's advantages.

The next morning we had made an arrangement to go out shopping 
together, and to purchase some articles of female gear, that Sam 
intended to bestow on his relations when he returned.  Seven 
needle-books, for his sisters; a gilt buckle, for his mamma; a 
handsome French cashmere shawl and bonnet, for his aunt (the old 
lady keeps an inn in the Borough, and has plenty of money, and no 
heirs); and a toothpick case, for his father.  Sam is a good fellow 
to all his relations, and as for his aunt, he adores her.  Well, we 
were to go and make these purchases, and I arrived punctually at my 
time; but Sam was stretched on a sofa, very pale and dismal.

I saw how it had been.--"A little too much of Mr. Ringwood's 
claret, I suppose?"

He only gave a sickly stare.

"Where does the Honorable Tom live?" says I.

"HONORABLE!" says Sam, with a hollow, horrid laugh; "I tell you, 
Tit, he's no more Honorable than you are."

"What, an impostor?"

"No, no; not that.  He is a real Honorable, only--"

"Oh, ho! I smell a rat--a little jealous, eh?"

"Jealousy be hanged!  I tell you he's a thief; and the Baron's a 
thief; and, hang me, if I think his wife is any better.  Eight-and-
thirty pounds he won of me before supper; and made me drunk, and 
sent me home:--is THAT honorable?  How can I afford to lose forty 
pounds?  It's took me two years to save it up--if my old aunt gets 
wind of it, she'll cut me off with a shilling: hang me!"--and here 
Sam, in an agony, tore his fair hair.

While bewailing his lot in this lamentable strain, his bell was 
rung, which signal being answered by a surly "Come in," a tall, 
very fashionable gentleman, with a fur coat, and a fierce tuft to 
his chin, entered the room.  "Pogson my buck, how goes it?" said 
he, familiarly, and gave a stare at me: I was making for my hat.

"Don't go," said Sam, rather eagerly; and I sat down again.

The Honorable Mr. Ringwood hummed and ha'd: and, at last, said he 
wished to speak to Mr. Pogson on business, in private, if possible.

"There's no secrets betwixt me and my friend," cried Sam.

Mr. Ringwood paused a little:--"An awkward business that of last 
night," at length exclaimed he.

"I believe it WAS an awkward business," said Sam, dryly.

"I really am very sorry for your losses."

"Thank you: and so am I, I can tell you," said Sam.

"You must mind, my good fellow, and not drink; for, when you drink, 
you WILL play high: by Gad, you led US in, and not we you."

"I dare say," answered Sam, with something of peevishness; "losses 
is losses: there's no use talking about 'em when they're over and 
paid."

"And paid?" here wonderingly spoke Mr. Ringwood; "why, my dear fel--
what the deuce--has Florval been with you?"

"D--- Florval!" growled Sam, "I've never set eyes on his face since 
last night; and never wish to see him again."

"Come, come, enough of this talk; how do you intend to settle the 
bills which you gave him last night?"

"Bills I what do you mean?"

"I mean, sir, these bills," said the Honorable Tom, producing two 
out of his pocket-book, and looking as stern as a lion.  "'I 
promise to pay, on demand, to the Baron de Florval, the sum of four 
hundred pounds.  October 20, 1838.'  'Ten days after date I promise 
to pay the Baron de et caetera et caetera, one hundred and ninety-
eight pounds.  Samuel Pogson.'  You didn't say what regiment you 
were in."

"WHAT!" shouted poor Sam, as from a dream, starting up and looking 
preternaturally pale and hideous.

"D--- it, sir, you don't affect ignorance: you don't pretend not to 
remember that you signed these bills, for money lost in my rooms: 
money LENT to you, by Madame de Florval, at your own request, and 
lost to her husband?  You don't suppose, sir, that I shall be such 
an infernal idiot as to believe you, or such a coward as to put up 
with a mean subterfuge of this sort.  Will you, or will you not, 
pay the money, sir?"

"I will not," said Sam, stoutly; "it's a d----d swin--"

Here Mr. Ringwood sprung up, clenching his riding-whip, and looking 
so fierce that Sam and I bounded back to the other end of the room.  
"Utter that word again, and, by heaven, I'll murder you!" shouted 
Mr. Ringwood, and looked as if he would, too: "once more, will you, 
or will you not, pay this money?"

"I can't," said Sam faintly.

"I'll call again, Captain Pogson," said Mr. Ringwood, "I'll call 
again in one hour; and, unless you come to some arrangement, you 
must meet my friend, the Baron de Florval, or I'll post you for a 
swindler and a coward."  With this he went out: the door thundered 
to after him, and when the clink of his steps departing had 
subsided, I was enabled to look round at Pog.  The poor little man 
had his elbows on the marble table, his head between his hands, and 
looked, as one has seen gentlemen look over a steam-vessel off 
Ramsgate, the wind blowing remarkably fresh: at last he fairly 
burst out crying.

"If Mrs. Pogson heard of this," said I, "what would become of the 
'Three Tuns?'" (for I wished to give him a lesson).  "If your Ma, 
who took you every Sunday to meeting, should know that her boy was 
paying attention to married women;--if Drench, Glauber and Co., 
your employers, were to know that their confidential agent was a 
gambler, and unfit to be trusted with their money, how long do you 
think your connection would last with them, and who would 
afterwards employ you?"

To this poor Pog had not a word of answer; but sat on his sofa 
whimpering so bitterly, that the sternest of moralists would have 
relented towards him, and would have been touched by the little 
wretch's tears.  Everything, too, must be pleaded in excuse for 
this unfortunate bagman: who, if he wished to pass for a captain, 
had only done so because he had an intense respect and longing for 
rank: if he had made love to the Baroness, had only done so because 
he was given to understand by Lord Byron's "Don Juan" that making 
love was a very correct, natty thing: and if he had gambled, had 
only been induced to do so by the bright eyes and example of the 
Baron and the Baroness.  O ye Barons and Baronesses of England! if 
ye knew what a number of small commoners are daily occupied in 
studying your lives, and imitating your aristocratic ways, how 
careful would ye be of your morals, manners, and conversation!

My soul was filled, then, with a gentle yearning pity for Pogson, 
and revolved many plans for his rescue: none of these seeming to 
be practicable, at last we hit on the very wisest of all, and 
determined to apply for counsel to no less a person than Major 
British.

A blessing it is to be acquainted with my worthy friend, little 
Major British; and heaven, sure, it was that put the Major into my 
head, when I heard of this awkward scrape of poor Fog's.  The Major 
is on half-pay, and occupies a modest apartment au quatrime, in 
the very hotel which Pogson had patronized at my suggestion; 
indeed, I had chosen it from Major British's own peculiar 
recommendation.

There is no better guide to follow than such a character as the 
honest Major, of whom there are many likenesses now scattered over 
the Continent of Europe: men who love to live well, and are forced 
to live cheaply, and who find the English abroad a thousand times 
easier, merrier, and more hospitable than the same persons at home.  
I, for my part, never landed on Calais pier without feeling that a 
load of sorrows was left on the other side of the water; and have 
always fancied that black care stepped on board the steamer, along 
with the custom-house officers at Gravesend, and accompanied one to 
yonder black louring towers of London--so busy, so dismal, and so 
vast.

British would have cut any foreigner's throat who ventured to say 
so much, but entertained, no doubt, private sentiments of this 
nature; for he passed eight months of the year, regularly, abroad, 
with headquarters at Paris (the garrets before alluded to), and 
only went to England for the month's shooting, on the grounds of 
his old colonel, now an old lord, of whose acquaintance the Major 
was passably inclined to boast.

He loved and respected, like a good staunch Tory as he is, every 
one of the English nobility; gave himself certain little airs of 
a man of fashion, that were by no means disagreeable; and was, 
indeed, kindly regarded by such English aristocracy as he met, in 
his little annual tours among the German courts, in Italy or in 
Paris, where he never missed an ambassador's night: he retailed to 
us, who didn't go, but were delighted to know all that had taken 
place, accurate accounts of the dishes, the dresses, and the 
scandal which had there fallen under his observation.

He is, moreover, one of the most useful persons in society that can 
possibly be; for besides being incorrigibly duelsome on his own 
account, he is, for others, the most acute and peaceable counsellor 
in the world, and has carried more friends through scrapes and 
prevented more deaths than any member of the Humane Society.  
British never bought a single step in the army, as is well known.  
In '14 he killed a celebrated French fire-eater,, who had slain a 
young friend of his, and living, as he does, a great deal with 
young men of pleasure, and good old sober family people, he is 
loved by them both and has as welcome a place made for him at a 
roaring bachelor's supper at the "Caf Anglais," as at a staid 
dowager's dinner-table in the Faubourg St. Honor.  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 Fogson in his dress, I conducted him, panting, up to 
the Major's quatrime, where we were cheerfully bidden to come in.  
The little gentleman was in his travelling jacket, and occupied in 
painting, elegantly, one of those natty pairs of boots in which he 
daily promenaded the Boulevards.  A couple of pairs of tough buff 
gloves had been undergoing some pipe-claying operation under his 
hands; no man stepped out so spick and span, with a hat so nicely 
brushed, with a stiff cravat tied so neatly under a fat little red 
face, with a blue frock-coat so scrupulously fitted to a punchy 
little person, as Major British, about whom we have written these 
two pages.  He stared rather hardly at my companion, but gave me a 
kind shake of the hand, and we proceeded at once to business.  
"Major British," said I, "we want your advice in regard to an 
unpleasant affair which has just occurred to my friend Pogson."

"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 kindness."

"I see," says British.

"Her husband the Baron--"

"NOW it's coming," said the Major, with a grin: "her husband is 
jealous, I suppose, and there is a talk of the Bois de Boulogne: my 
dear sir, you can't refuse--can't refuse."

"It's not that," said Pogson, wagging his head passionately.

"Her husband the Baron seemed quite as much taken with Pogson as 
his lady was, and has introduced him to some very distingu friends 
of his own set.  Last night one of the Baron's friends gave a party 
in honor of my friend Pogson, who lost forty-eight pounds at cards 
BEFORE he was made drunk, and heaven knows how much after."

"Not a shilling, by sacred heaven!--not a shilling!" yelled out 
Pogson.  "After the supper I 'ad such an 'eadach', I couldn't do 
anything but fall asleep on the sofa."

"You 'ad such an 'eadach', sir," says British, sternly, who piques 
himself on his grammar and pronunciation, and scorns a cockney.

Such a H-eadache, sir," replied Pogson, with much meekness.

"The unfortunate man is brought home at two o'clock, as tipsy as 
possible, dragged up stairs, senseless, to bed, and, on waking, 
receives a visit from his entertainer of the night before--a lord's 
son, Major, a tip-top fellow,--who brings a couple of bills that my 
friend Pogson is said to have signed."

"Well, my dear fellow, the thing's quite simple,--he must pay 
them."

"I can't pay them."

"He can't pay them," said we both in a breath: "Pogson is a 
commercial traveller, with thirty shillings a week, and how the 
deuce is he to pay five hundred pounds?"

"A bagman, sir! and what right has a bagman to gamble?  Gentlemen 
gamble, sir; tradesmen, sir, have no 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 hereditary aristocracy, and 
admire only Nature's gentlemen.  For my part, I think that a 
British merch--"

"Hold your tongue, sir," bounced out the Major, "and don't lecture 
me; don't come to me, sir, with your slang about Nature's 
gentlemen--Nature's tomfools, sir!  Did Nature open a cash account 
for you at a banker's, sir?  Did Nature give you an education, sir?  
What do you mean by competing with people to whom Nature has given 
all these things?  Stick to your bags, Mr. Pogson, and your bagmen, 
and leave barons and their like to their own ways."

"Yes, but, Major," here cried that faithful friend, who has always 
stood by Pogson; "they won't leave him alone."

"The honorable gent says I must fight if I don't pay," whimpered 
Sam.

"What! fight YOU?  Do you mean that the honorable gent, as you call 
him, will go out with a bagman?"

"He doesn't know I'm a--I'm a commercial man," blushingly said Sam: 
"he fancies I'm a military gent."

The Major's gravity was 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. Pogson, by making 
love to other men's wives, and calling yourself names," said the 
Major, who was restored to good humor.  "And pray, who is the 
honorable gent?"

"The Earl of Cinqbars' son," says Pogson, "the Honorable 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 talking about her trente-deux 
ans?  Why, sir, that woman was an actress on the Boulevard, when we 
were here in '15.  She's no more his wife than I am.  Delval's name 
is Chicot.  The woman is always travelling between London and 
Paris: I saw she was hooking you at Calais; she has hooked ten men, 
in the course of the last two years, in this very way.  She lent 
you money, didn't she?"  "Yes."  "And she leans on your shoulder, 
and whispers, 'Play half for me,' and somebody wins it, and the 
poor thing is as sorry as you are, and her husband storms and 
rages, and insists on double stakes; and she leans over your 
shoulder again, and tells every card in your hand to your 
adversary, and that's the way it's done, Mr. Pogson."

"I've been 'AD, I see I 'ave," said Pogson, very humbly.

"Well, sir," said the Major, "in consideration, not of you, sir--
for, give me leave to tell you, Mr. Pogson, that you are a pitiful 
little scoundrel--in consideration for my Lord Cinqbars, sir, with 
whom, I am proud to say, I am intimate," (the Major dearly loved a 
lord, and was, by his own showing, acquainted with half the 
peerage,) "I will aid you in this affair.  Your cursed vanity, sir, 
and want of principle, has set you, in the first place, intriguing 
with other men's wives; and if you had been shot for your pains, a 
bullet would have only served you right, sir.  You must go about as 
an impostor, sir, in society; and you pay richly for your swindling,
sir, by being swindled yourself: but, as I think your punishment has
been already pretty severe, I shall do my best, out of regard for my
friend, Lord Cinqbars, to prevent the matter going any farther; and
I recommend you to leave Paris without delay.  Now let me wish you a
good morning."--Wherewith British made a majestic bow, and began
giving the last touch to his varnished boots.

We departed: poor Sam perfectly silent and chapfallen; and I 
meditating on the wisdom of the half-pay philosopher, and wondering 
what means he would employ to rescue Pogson from his fate.

What these means were I know not; but Mr. Ringwood did NOT make his 
appearance at six; and, at eight, a letter arrived for "Mr. Pogson, 
commercial traveller," &c. &c.  It was blank inside, but contained 
his two bills.  Mr. Ringwood left town, almost immediately, for 
Vienna; nor did the Major explain the circumstances which caused 
his departure; but he muttered something about "knew some of his 
old tricks," "threatened police, and made him disgorge directly."

Mr. Ringwood is, as yet, young at his trade; and I have often 
thought it was very green of him to give up the bills to the Major, 
who, certainly, would never have pressed the matter before the 
police, out of respect for his friend, Lord Cinqbars.




THE FTES 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 ftes of July.--You have 
read, no doubt, of that glorious revolution which took place here 
nine years ago, and which is now commemorated annually, in a pretty 
facetious manner, by gun-firing, student-processions, pole-
climbing-for-silver-spoons, gold-watches and legs-of-mutton, 
monarchical orations, and what not, and sanctioned, moreover, by 
Chamber-of-Deputies, with a grant of a couple of hundred thousand 
francs to defray the expenses of all the crackers, gun-firings, and 
legs-of-mutton aforesaid.  There is a new fountain in the Place 
Louis Quinze, otherwise called the Place Louis Seize, or else the 
Place de la Rvolution, or else the Place de la Concorde (who can 
say why?)--which, I am told, is to run bad wine during certain 
hours to-morrow, and there WOULD have been a review of the National 
Guards and the Line--only, since the Fieschi business, reviews are 
no joke, and so this latter part of the festivity has been 
discontinued.

Do you not laugh, O Pharos of Bungay, at the continuance of a 
humbug such as this?--at the humbugging anniversary of a humbug?  
The King of the Barricades is, next to the Emperor Nicholas, the 
most absolute Sovereign in Europe; yet there is not in the whole of 
this fair kingdom of France a single man who cares sixpence about 
him, or his dynasty: except, mayhap, a few hangers-on at the 
Chteau, who eat his dinners, and put their hands in his purse.  
The feeling of loyalty is as dead as old Charles the Tenth; the 
Chambers have been laughed at, the country has been laughed at, all 
the successive ministries have been laughed at (and you know who is 
the wag that has amused himself with them all); and, behold, here 
come three days at the end of July, and cannons think it necessary 
to fire off, squibs and crackers to blaze and fizz, fountains to 
run wine, kings to make speeches, and subjects to crawl up greasy 
mts-de-cocagne in token of gratitude and rjouissance publique!--
My dear sir, in their aptitude to swallow, to utter, to enact 
humbugs, these French people, from Majesty downwards, beat all the 
other nations of this earth.  In looking at these men, their 
manners, dresses, opinions, politics, actions, history, it is 
impossible to preserve a grave countenance; instead of having 
Carlyle to write a History of the French Revolution, I often think 
it should be handed over to Dickens or Theodore Hook: and oh! where 
is the Rabelais to be the faithful historian of the last phase of 
the Revolution--the last glorious nine years of which we are now 
commemorating the last glorious three days?

I had made a vow not to say a syllable on the subject, although I 
have seen, with my neighbors, all the gingerbread stalls down the 
Champs Elyses, and some of the "catafalques" erected to the memory 
of the heroes of July, where the students and others, not connected 
personally with the victims, and not having in the least profited 
by their deaths, come and weep; but the grief shown on the first 
day is quite as absurd and fictitious as the joy exhibited on the 
last.  The subject is one which admits of much wholesome reflection 
and food for mirth; and, besides, is so richly treated by the 
French themselves, that it would be a sin and a shame to pass it 
over.  Allow me to have the honor of translating, for your 
edification, an account of the first day's proceedings--it is 
mighty amusing, to my thinking.


"CELEBRATION OF THE DAYS OF JULY.

"To-day (Saturday), funeral ceremonies, in honor of the victims of 
July, were held in the various edifices consecrated to public 
worship.

"These edifices, with the exception of some churches (especially 
that of the Petits-Pres), 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 Revolution of July were 
pronounced by the pastors.

"The absence of M. de Qulen (Archbishop of Paris), and of many 
members of the superior clergy, was remarked at Notre Dame.

"The civil authorities attended service in their several districts.

"The poles, ornamented with tri-colored flags, which formerly were 
placed on Notre Dame, were, it was remarked, suppressed.  The flags 
on the Pont Neuf were, during the ceremony, only half-mast high, 
and covered with crape."

Et caetera, et caetera, et caetera.

"The tombs of the Louvre were covered with black hangings, and 
adorned with tri-colored flags.  In front and in the middle was 
erected an expiatory monument of a pyramidical shape, and 
surmounted by a funeral vase.

"These tombs were guarded by the MUNICIPAL GUARD, THE TROOPS OF THE 
LINE, THE SERGENS DE VILLE (town patrol), AND A BRIGADE OF AGENTS 
OF POLICE IN PLAIN CLOTHES, under the orders of peace-officer 
Vassal.

"Between eleven and twelve o'clock, some young men, to the number 
of 400 or 500, assembled on the Place de la Bourse, one of them 
bearing a tri-colored banner with an inscription, 'TO THE MANES OF 
JULY:' ranging themselves in order, they marched five abreast to 
the March des Innocens.  On their arrival, the Municipal Guards of 
the Halle aux Draps, where the post had been doubled, issued out 
without arms, and the town-sergeants placed themselves before the 
market to prevent the entry of the procession.  The young men 
passed in perfect order, and without saying a word--only lifting 
their hats as they defiled before the tombs.  When they arrived at 
the Louvre they found the gates shut, and the garden evacuated.  
The troops were under arms, and formed in battalion.

"After the passage of the procession, the Garden was again open to 
the public."

And the evening and the morning were the first day.

There's nothing serious in mortality: is there, from the beginning 
of this account to the end thereof, aught but sheer, open, 
monstrous, undisguised humbug?  I said, before, that 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 navet, which 
one could not desire improved?  How good is that touch of sly 
indignation about the LITTLE CATAFALQUES! how rich the contrast 
presented by the economy of the Catholics to the splendid disregard 
of expense exhibited by the devout Jews! and how touching the 
"APOLOGETICAL DISCOURSES on the Revolution," delivered by the 
Protestant pastors!  Fancy the profound affliction of the Gardes 
Municipaux, the Sergens de Ville, the police agents in plain 
clothes, and the troops with fixed bayonets, sobbing round the 
"expiatory monuments of a pyramidical shape, surmounted by funeral 
vases," and compelled, by sad duty, to fire into the public who 
might wish to indulge in the same woe!  O "manes of July!" (the 
phrase is pretty and grammatical) why did you with sharp bullets 
break those Louvre windows?  Why did you bayonet red-coated Swiss 
behind that fair white faade, and, braving cannon, musket, sabre, 
perspective guillotine, burst yonder bronze gates, rush through 
that peaceful picture-gallery, and hurl royalty, loyalty, and a 
thousand years of Kings, head-over-heels out of yonder Tuileries' 
windows?

It is, you will allow, a little difficult to say:--there is, 
however, ONE benefit that the country has gained (as for liberty of 
press, or person, diminished taxation, a juster representation, who 
ever thinks of them?)--ONE benefit they have gained, or nearly--
abolition de la peine-de-mort pour dlit politique: no more wicked 
guillotining for revolutions.  A Frenchman must have his revolution--
it is his nature to knock down omnibuses in the street, and across
them to fire at troops of the line--it is a sin to balk it.  Did not
the King send off Revolutionary Prince Napoleon in a coach-and-four?
Did not the jury, before the face of God and Justice, proclaim
Revolutionary Colonel Vaudrey not guilty?--One may hope, soon, that
if a man shows decent courage and energy in half a dozen meutes, he
will get promotion and a premium.

I do not (although, perhaps, partial to the subject,) want to talk 
more nonsense than the occasion warrants, and will pray you to cast 
your eyes over the following anecdote, that is now going the round 
of the papers, and respects the commutation of the punishment of 
that wretched, fool-hardy Barbs, who, on his trial, seemed to 
invite the penalty which has just been remitted to him.  You 
recollect the braggart's speech: "When the Indian falls into the 
power of the enemy, he knows the fate that awaits him, and submits 
his head to the knife:--I am the Indian!"

"Well--"

"M. Hugo was at the Opera on the night the sentence of the Court of 
Peers, condemning Barbs to death, was published.  The great poet 
composed the following verses:--


     'Par votre ange envole, ainsi qu'une colombe, 
      Par le royal enfant, doux et frle roseau, 
      Grace encore une fois!  Grace au nom de la tombe!
         Grace au nom du bereau!'*


"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 commutation of Barbs, while the 
poet was still writing.

"Louis Philippe replied to the author of 'Ruy Blas' most 
graciously, that he had already subscribed to a wish so noble, and 
that the verses had only confirmed his previous disposition to 
mercy."


* 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!"


Now in countries where fools most abound, did one ever read of more 
monstrous, palpable folly?  In any country, save this, would a poet 
who chose to write four crack-brained verses, comparing an angel to 
a dove, and a little boy to a reed, and calling upon the chief 
magistrate, in the name of the angel, or dove (the Princess Mary), 
in her tomb, and the little infant in his cradle, to spare a 
criminal, have received a "gracious answer" to his nonsense?  Would 
he have ever despatched the nonsense? and would any journalist have 
been silly enough to talk of "the noble voice that could thus speak 
to the throne," and the noble throne that could return such a noble 
answer to the noble voice?  You get nothing done here gravely and 
decently.  Tawdry stage tricks are played, and braggadocio 
claptraps uttered, on every occasion, however sacred or solemn: in 
the face of death, as by Barbs with his hideous Indian metaphor; 
in the teeth of reason, as by M. Victor Hugo with his twopenny-post 
poetry; and of justice, as by the King's absurd reply to this 
absurd demand!  Suppose the Count of Paris to be twenty times a 
reed, and the Princess Mary a host of angels, is that any reason 
why the law should not have its course?  Justice is the God of our 
lower world, our great omnipresent guardian: as such it moves, or 
should move on majestic, awful, irresistible, having no passions--
like a God: but, in the very midst of the path across which it is 
to pass, lo! M. Victor Hugo trips forward, smirking, and says, 
O divine Justice! I will trouble you to listen to the following 
trifling effusion of mine:--


     Par votre ange envole, ainsi qu'une," &c.


Awful Justice stops, and, bowing gravely, listens to M. Hugo's 
verses, and, with true French politeness, says, "Mon cher Monsieur, 
these verses are charming, ravissans, dlicieux, and, coming from 
such a clbrit littraire as yourself, shall meet with every 
possible attention--in fact, had I required anything to confirm my 
own previous opinions, this charming poem would have done so.  Bon 
jour, mon cher Monsieur Hugo, au revoir!"--and they part:--Justice 
taking off his hat and bowing, and the author of "Ruy Blas" quite 
convinced that he has been treating with him d'gal en gal.  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,--o diable donc la vrit 
va-t-elle se nicher?

        .        .        .        .        .        .

The last rocket of the fte of July has just mounted, exploded, 
made a portentous bang, and emitted a gorgeous show of blue lights, 
and then (like many reputations) disappeared totally: the hundredth 
gun on the Invalid terrace has uttered its last roar--and a great 
comfort it is for eyes and ears that the festival is over.  We 
shall be able to go about our everyday business again, and not be 
hustled by the gendarmes or the crowd.

The sight which I have just come away from is as brilliant, happy, 
and beautiful as can be conceived; and if you want to see French 
people to the greatest advantage, you should go to a festival like 
this, where their manners, and innocent gayety, show a very 
pleasing contrast to the coarse and vulgar hilarity which the same 
class would exhibit in our own country--at Epsom racecourse, for 
instance, or Greenwich Fair.  The greatest noise that I heard 
was that of a company of jolly villagers from a place in the 
neighborhood of Paris, who, as soon as the fireworks were over, 
formed themselves into a line, three or four abreast, and so 
marched singing home.  As for the fireworks, squibs and crackers 
are very hard to describe, and very little was to be seen of them: 
to me, the prettiest sight was the vast, orderly, happy crowd, the 
number of children, and the extraordinary care and kindness of the 
parents towards these little creatures.  It does one good to see 
honest, heavy piciers, fathers of families, playing with them in 
the Tuileries, or, as to-night, bearing them stoutly on their 
shoulders, through many long hours, in order that the little ones 
too may have their share of the fun.  John Bull, I fear, is more 
selfish: he does not take Mrs. Bull to the public-house; but leaves 
her, for the most part, to take care of the children at home.

The fte, then, is over; the pompous black pyramid at the Louvre is 
only a skeleton now; all the flags have been miraculously whisked 
away during the night, and the fine chandeliers which glittered 
down the Champs Elyses for full half a mile, have been consigned 
to their dens and darkness.  Will they ever be reproduced for other 
celebrations of the glorious 29th of July?--I think not; the 
Government which vowed that there should be no more persecutions of 
the press, was, on that very 29th, seizing a Legitimist paper, for 
some real or fancied offence against it: it had seized, and was 
seizing daily, numbers of persons merely suspected of being 
disaffected (and you may fancy how liberty is understood, when some 
of these prisoners, the other day, on coming to trial, were found 
guilty and sentenced to ONE day's imprisonment, after THIRTY-SIX 
DAYS' DETENTION ON SUSPICION).  I think the Government which 
follows such a system, cannot be very anxious about any farther 
revolutionary ftes, and that the Chamber may reasonably refuse to 
vote more money for them.  Why should men be so mighty proud of 
having, on a certain day, cut a certain number of their fellow-
countrymen's throats?  The Guards and the Line employed this time 
nine years did no more than those who cannonaded the starving 
Lyonnese, or bayoneted the luckless inhabitants of the Rue 
Transnounain:--they did but fulfil the soldier's honorable duty:--
his superiors bid him kill and he killeth:--perhaps, had he gone to 
his work with a little more heart, the result would have been 
different, and then--would the conquering party have been justified 
in annually rejoicing over the conquered?  Would we have thought 
Charles X. justified in causing fireworks to be blazed, and 
concerts to be sung, and speeches to be spouted, in commemoration 
of his victory over his slaughtered countrymen?--I wish for my part 
they would allow the people to go about their business as on the 
other 362 days of the year, and leave the Champs Elyses free for 
the omnibuses to run, and the Tuileries' in quiet, so that the 
nurse-maids might come as usual, and the newspapers be read for a 
halfpenny apiece.

Shall I trouble you with an account of the speculations of these 
latter, and the state of the parties which they represent?  The 
complication is not a little curious, and may form, perhaps, a 
subject of graver disquisition.  The July ftes occupy, as you may 
imagine, a considerable part of their columns just now, and it is 
amusing to follow them one by one; to read Tweedledum's praise, and 
Tweedledee's indignation--to read, in the Dbats how the King was 
received with shouts and loyal vivats--in the Nation, how not a 
tongue was wagged in his praise, but, on the instant of his 
departure, how the people called for the "Marseillaise" and 
applauded THAT.--But best say no more about the fte.  The 
Legitimists were always indignant at it.  The high Philippist party 
sneers at and despises it; the Republicans hate it: it seems a joke 
against THEM.  Why continue it?--If there be anything sacred in the 
name and idea of loyalty, why renew this fte?  It only shows how a 
rightful monarch was hurled from his throne, and a dexterous 
usurper stole his precious diadem.  If there be anything noble in 
the memory of a day, when citizens, unused to war, rose against 
practised veterans, and, armed with the strength of their cause, 
overthrew them, why speak of it now? or renew the bitter 
recollections of the bootless struggle and victory?  O Lafayette!  
O hero of two worlds!  O accomplished Cromwell Grandison! you have 
to answer for more than any mortal man who has played a part in 
history: two republics and one monarchy does the world owe to you; 
and especially grateful should your country be to you.  Did you 
not, in '90, make clear the path for honest Robespierre, and in 
'30, prepare the way for--

        .        .        .        .        .        .

[The Editor of the Bungay Beacon would insert no more of this 
letter, which is, therefore, for ever lost to the public.]




ON THE FRENCH SCHOOL OF PAINTING:

WITH APPROPRIATE ANECDOTES, ILLUSTRATIONS, AND PHILOSOPHICAL 
DISQUISITIONS.


IN A LETTER TO MR. MACGILP, OF LONDON.


The three collections of pictures at the Louvre, the Luxembourg, 
and the Ecole des Beaux Arts, contain a number of specimens of 
French art, since its commencement almost, and give the stranger a 
pretty fair opportunity to study and appreciate the school.  The 
French list of painters contains some very good names--no very 
great ones, except Poussin (unless the admirers of Claude choose to 
rank him among great painters),--and I think the school was never 
in so flourishing a condition as it is at the present day.  They 
say there are three thousand artists in this town alone: of these a 
handsome minority paint not merely tolerably, but well understand 
their business: draw the figure accurately; sketch with cleverness; 
and paint portraits, churches, or restaurateurs' shops, in a decent 
manner.

To account for a superiority over England which, I think, as 
regards art, is incontestable--it must be remembered that the 
painter's trade, in France, is a very good one; better appreciated, 
better understood, and, generally, far better paid than with us.  
There are a dozen excellent schools which a lad may enter here, 
and, under the eye of a practised master, learn the apprenticeship 
of his art at an expense of about ten pounds a year.  In England 
there is no school except the Academy, unless the student can 
afford to pay a very large sum, and place himself under the tuition 
of some particular artist.  Here, a young man, for his ten pounds, 
has all sorts of accessory instruction, models, &c.; and has 
further, and for nothing, numberless incitements to study his 
profession which are not to be found in England:--the streets are 
filled with picture-shops, the people themselves are pictures 
walking about; the churches, theatres, eating-houses, concert-rooms 
are covered with pictures: Nature itself is inclined more kindly to 
him, for the sky is a thousand times more bright and beautiful, and 
the sun shines for the greater part of the year.  Add to this, 
incitements more selfish, but quite as powerful: a French artist is 
paid very handsomely; for five hundred a year is much where all are 
poor; and has a rank in society rather above his merits than below 
them, being caressed by hosts and hostesses in places where titles 
are laughed at and a baron is thought of no more account than a 
banker's clerk.

The life of the young artist here is the easiest, merriest, 
dirtiest existence possible.  He comes to Paris, probably at 
sixteen, from his province; his parents settle forty pounds a year 
on him, and pay his master; he establishes himself in the Pays 
Latin, or in the new quarter of Notre Dame de Lorette (which is 
quite peopled with painters); he arrives at his atelier at a 
tolerably early hour, and labors among a score of companions as 
merry and poor as himself.  Each gentleman has his favorite 
tobacco-pipe; and the pictures are painted in the midst of a cloud 
of smoke, and a din of puns and choice French slang, and a roar of 
choruses, of which no one can form an idea who has not been present 
at such an assembly.

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 of 
them; all my friends the artists have beards who can raise them; 
and Nature, though she has rather stinted the bodies and limbs of 
the French nation, has been very liberal to them of hair, as you 
may see by the following specimen.  Fancy these heads and beards 
under all sorts of caps--Chinese caps, Mandarin caps, Greek skull-
caps, English jockey-caps, Russian or Kuzzilbash caps, Middle-age 
caps (such as are called, in heraldry, caps of maintenance), 
Spanish nets, and striped worsted nightcaps.  Fancy all the jackets 
you have ever seen, and you have before you, as well as pen can 
describe, the costumes of these indescribable Frenchmen.

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 sciences) comport 
themselves towards the sober citizen pretty much as the German 
bursch towards the philister, or as the military man, during the 
empire, did to the pkin:--from the height of their poverty they 
look down upon him with the greatest imaginable scorn--a scorn, I 
think, by which the citizen seems dazzled, for his respect for the 
arts is intense.  The case is very different in England, where a 
grocer's daughter would think she made a misalliance by marrying a 
painter, and where a literary man (in spite of all we can say 
against it) ranks below that class of gentry composed of the 
apothecary, the attorney, the wine-merchant, whose positions, in 
country towns at least, are so equivocal.  As, for instance, my 
friend the Rev. James Asterisk, who has an undeniable pedigree, a 
paternal estate, and a living to boot, once dined in Warwickshire, 
in company with several squires and parsons of that enlightened 
county.  Asterisk, as usual, made himself extraordinarily agreeable 
at dinner, and delighted all present with his learning and wit.  
"Who is that monstrous pleasant fellow?" said one of the squires.  
"Don't you know?" replied another.  "It's Asterisk, the author of 
so-and-so, and a famous contributor to such and such a magazine."  
"Good heavens!" said the squire, quite horrified! "a literary man!  
I thought he had been a gentleman!"

Another instance: M. Guizot, when he was Minister here, had the 
grand hotel of the Ministry, and gave entertainments to all the 
great de par le monde, as Brantme says, and entertained them in a 
proper ministerial magnificence.  The splendid and beautiful 
Duchess of Dash was at one of his ministerial parties; and went, a 
fortnight afterwards, as in duty bound, to pay her respects to M. 
Guizot.  But it happened, in this fortnight, that M. Guizot was 
Minister no longer; having given up his portfolio, and his grand 
hotel, to retire into private life, and to occupy his humble 
apartments in the house which he possesses, and of which he lets 
the greater portion.  A friend of mine was present at one of the 
ex-Minister's soires, where the Duchess of Dash made her 
appearance.  He says the Duchess, at her entrance, seemed quite 
astounded, and examined the premises with a most curious wonder.  
Two or three shabby little rooms, with ordinary furniture, and a 
Minister en retraite, who lives by letting lodgings!  In our 
country was ever such a thing heard of?  No, thank heaven! and a 
Briton ought to be proud of the difference.

But to our muttons.  This country is surely the paradise of 
painters and penny-a-liners; and when one reads of M. Horace Vernet 
at Rome, exceeding ambassadors at Rome by his magnificence, and 
leading such a life as Rubens or Titian did of old; when one sees 
M. Thiers's grand villa in the Rue St. George (a dozen years ago he 
was not even a penny-a-liner: no such luck); when one contemplates, 
in imagination, M. Gudin, the marine painter, too lame to walk 
through the picture-gallery of the Louvre, accommodated, therefore, 
with a wheel-chair, a privilege of princes only, and accompanied--
nay, for what I know, actually trundled--down the gallery by 
majesty itself--who does not long to make one of the great nation, 
exchange his native tongue for the melodious jabber of France; or, 
at least, adopt it for his native country, like Marshal Saxe, 
Napoleon, and Anacharsis Clootz?  Noble people! they made Tom Paine 
a deputy; and as for Tom Macaulay, they would make a DYNASTY of 
him.

Well, this being the case, no wonder there are so many painters in 
France; and here, at least, we are back to them.  At the Ecole 
Royale des Beaux Arts, you see two or three hundred specimens of 
their performances; all the prize-men, since 1750, I think, being 
bound to leave their prize sketch or picture.  Can anything good 
come out of the Royal Academy? is a question which has been 
considerably mooted in England (in the neighborhood of Suffolk 
Street especially).  The hundreds of French samples are, I think, 
not very satisfactory.  The subjects are almost all what are called 
classical: Orestes pursued by every variety of Furies; numbers of 
little wolf-sucking Romuluses; Hectors and Andromaches in a 
complication of parting embraces, and so forth; for it was the 
absurd maxim of our forefathers, that because these subjects had 
been the fashion twenty centuries ago, they must remain so in 
saecula saeculorum; because to these lofty heights giants had scaled, 
behold the race of pigmies must get upon stilts and jump at them 
likewise! and on the canvas, and in the theatre, the French frogs 
(excuse the pleasantry) were instructed to swell out and roar as 
much as possible like bulls.

What was the consequence, my dear friend?  In trying to make 
themselves into bulls, the frogs make themselves into jackasses, as 
might be expected.  For a hundred and ten years the classical 
humbug oppressed the nation; and you may see, in this gallery of 
the Beaux Arts, seventy years' specimens of the dulness which it 
engendered.

Now, as Nature made every man with a nose and eyes of his own, she 
gave him a character of his own too; and yet we, O foolish race! 
must try our very best to ape some one or two of our neighbors, 
whose ideas fit us no more than their breeches!  It is the study of 
nature, surely, that profits us, and not of these imitations of 
her.  A man, as a man, from a dustman up to schylus, is God's 
work, and good to read, as all works of Nature are: but the silly 
animal is never content; is ever trying to fit itself into another 
shape; wants to deny its own identity, and has not the courage to 
utter its own thoughts.  Because Lord Byron was wicked, and 
quarrelled with the world; and found himself growing fat, and 
quarrelled with his victuals, and thus, naturally, grew ill-
humored, did not half Europe grow ill-humored too?  Did not every 
poet feel his young affections withered, and despair and darkness 
cast upon his soul?  Because certain mighty men of old could make 
heroical statues and plays, must we not be told that there is no 
other beauty but classical beauty?--must not every little whipster 
of a French poet chalk you out plays, "Henriades," and such-like, 
and vow that here was the real thing, the undeniable Kalon?

The undeniable fiddlestick!  For a hundred years, my dear sir, the 
world was humbugged by the so-called classical artists, as they now 
are by what is called the Christian art (of which anon); and it is 
curious to look at the pictorial traditions as here handed down.  
The consequence of them is, that scarce one of the classical 
pictures exhibited is worth much more than two-and-sixpence.  
Borrowed from statuary, in the first place, the color of the 
paintings seems, as much as possible, to participate in it; they 
are mostly of a misty, stony green, dismal hue, as if they had been 
painted in a world where no color was.  In every picture, there 
are, of course, white mantles, white urns, white columns, white 
statues--those oblig accomplishments of the sublime.  There are 
the endless straight noses, long eyes, round chins, short upper 
lips, just as they are ruled down for you in the drawing-books, as 
if the latter were the revelations of beauty, issued by supreme 
authority, from which there was no appeal?  Why is the classical 
reign to endure?  Why is yonder simpering Venus de' Medicis to be 
our standard of beauty, or the Greek tragedies to bound our notions 
of the sublime?  There was no reason why Agamemnon should set the 
fashions, and remain [Greek text omitted] to eternity: and there 
is a classical quotation, which you may have occasionally heard, 
beginning Vixere fortes, &c., which, as it avers that there were a 
great number of stout fellows before Agamemnon, may not unreasonably
induce us to conclude that similar heroes were to succeed him.
Shakspeare made a better man when his imagination moulded the mighty
figure of Macbeth.  And if you will measure Satan by Prometheus, the
blind old Puritan's work by that of the fiery Grecian poet, does not
Milton's angel surpass 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 Michel Angelo, and a number of casts 
from statues by the same splendid hand.  There IS the sublime, if 
you please--a new sublime--an original sublime--quite as sublime as 
the Greek sublime.  See yonder, in the midst of his angels, the 
Judge of the world descending in glory; and near him, beautiful and 
gentle, and yet indescribably august and pure, the Virgin by his 
side.  There is the "Moses," the grandest figure that ever was 
carved in stone.  It has about it something frightfully majestic, 
if one may so speak.  In examining this, and the astonishing 
picture of "The Judgment," or even a single figure of it, the 
spectator's sense amounts almost to pain.  I would not like to be 
left in a room alone with the "Moses."  How did the artist live 
amongst them, and create them?  How did he suffer the painful labor 
of invention?  One fancies that he would have been scorched up, 
like Semele, by sights too tremendous for his vision to bear.  
One cannot imagine him, with our small physical endowments and 
weaknesses, a man like ourselves.

As for the Ecole Royale des Beaux Arts, then, and all the good its 
students have done, as students, it is stark naught.  When the men 
did anything, it was after they had left the academy, and began 
thinking for themselves.  There is only one picture among the many 
hundreds that has, to my idea, much merit (a charming composition 
of Homer singing, signed Jourdy); and the only good that the 
Academy has done by its pupils was to send them to Rome, where they 
might learn better things.  At home, the intolerable, stupid 
classicalities, taught by men who, belonging to the least erudite 
country in Europe, were themselves, from their profession, the 
least learned among their countrymen, only weighed the pupils down, 
and cramped their hands, their eyes, and their imaginations; drove 
them away from natural beauty, which, thank God, is fresh and 
attainable by us all, to-day, and yesterday, and to-morrow; and 
sent them rambling after artificial grace, without the proper means 
of judging or attaining it.

A word for the building of the Palais des Beaux Arts.  It is 
beautiful, and as well finished and convenient as beautiful.  With 
its light and elegant fabric, its pretty fountain, its archway of 
the Renaissance, and fragments of sculpture, you can hardly see, on 
a fine day, a place more riant and pleasing.

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 meutes which are to take place; and 
where, as everybody knows, is the picture-gallery of modern French 
artists, whom government thinks worthy of patronage.

A very great proportion of the pictures, as we see by the 
catalogue, are by the students whose works we have just been to 
visit at the Beaux Arts, and who, having performed their pilgrimage 
to Rome, have taken rank among the 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 vigor.  There is Brutus, 
having chopped his son's head off, with all the agony of a father, 
and then, calling for number two; there is neas carrying off old 
Anchises; there are Paris and Venus, as naked as two Hottentots, 
and many more such choice subjects from Lemprire.

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 Lgion d'Honneur.  "The Grand Dauphiness 
Dying.

18. Blondel, Chevalier de la, &c.  "Zenobia found Dead."

36. Debay, Chevalier.  "The Death of Lucretia."

38. Dejuinne.  "The Death of Hector."

34. Court, Chevalier de la, &c.  "The Death of Caesar."

39, 40, 41.  Delacroix, Chevalier.  "Dante and Virgil in the 
    Infernal Lake," "The Massacre of Scio," and "Medea going to 
    Murder her Children."

43. Delaroche, Chevalier.  "Joas taken from among the Dead."

44. "The Death of Queen Elizabeth."

45. "Edward V. and his Brother" (preparing for death).

50. "Hecuba going to be Sacrificed."  Drolling, Chevalier.

51. Dubois.  "Young Clovis found Dead."

56. Henry, Chevalier.  "The Massacre of St. Bartholomew."

75. Gurin, Chevalier.  "Cain, after the Death of Abel."

83. Jacquand.  "Death of Adelaide de Comminges."

88. "The Death of Eudamidas."

93. "The Death of Hymetto."

103. "The Death of Philip of Austria."--And so on.


You see what woful subjects they take, and how profusely they are 
decorated with knighthood.  They are like the Black Brunswickers, 
these painters, and ought to be called Chevaliers de la Mort.  I 
don't know why the merriest people in the world should please 
themselves with such grim representations and varieties of murder, 
or why murder itself should be considered so eminently sublime and 
poetical.  It is good at the end of a tragedy; but, then, it is 
good because it is the end, and because, by the events foregone, 
the mind is prepared for it.  But these men will have nothing but 
fifth acts; and seem to skip, as unworthy, all the circumstances 
leading to them.  This, however, is part of the scheme--the 
bloated, unnatural, stilted, spouting, sham sublime, that our 
teachers have believed and tried to pass off as real, and which 
your humble servant and other antihumbuggists should heartily, 
according to the strength that is in them, endeavor to pull down.  
What, for instance, could Monsieur Lafond care about the death of 
Eudamidas?  What was Hecuba to Chevalier Drolling, or Chevalier 
Drolling to Hecuba?  I would lay a wager that neither of them ever 
conjugated [Greek text omitted], and that their school learning 
carried them not as far as the letter, but only to the game of taw.  
How were they to be inspired by such subjects?  From having seen 
Talma and Mademoiselle Georges flaunting in sham Greek costumes, 
and having read up the articles Eudamidas, Hecuba, in the 
"Mythological Dictionary."  What a classicism, inspired by rouge, 
gas-lamps, and a few lines in Lemprire, and copied, half from 
ancient statues, and half from a naked guardsman at one shilling 
and sixpence the hour!

Delacroix is a man of a very different genius, and his "Medea" is a 
genuine creation of a noble fancy.  For most of the others, Mrs. 
Brownrigg, and her two female 'prentices, would have done as well 
as the desperate Colchian with her [Greek text omitted].  M. 
Delacroix has produced a number of rude, barbarous pictures; but 
there is the stamp of genius on all of them,--the great poetical 
INTENTION, which is worth all your execution.  Delaroche is another 
man of high merit; with not such a great HEART, perhaps, as the 
other, but a fine and careful draughtsman, and an excellent 
arranger of his subject.  "The Death of Elizabeth" is a raw young 
performance seemingly--not, at least, to my taste.  The "Enfans 
d'Edouard" is renowned over Europe, and has appeared in a hundred 
different ways in print.  It is properly pathetic and gloomy, and 
merits fully its high reputation.  This painter rejoices in such 
subjects--in what Lord Portsmouth used to call "black jobs."  He 
has killed Charles I. and Lady Jane Grey, and the Dukes of Guise, 
and I don't know whom besides.  He is, at present, occupied with a 
vast work at the Beaux Arts, where the writer of this had the honor 
of seeing him,--a little, keen-looking man, some five feet in 
height.  He wore, on this important occasion, a bandanna round his 
head, and was in the act of smoking a cigar.

Horace Vernet, whose beautiful daughter Delaroche married, is the 
king of French battle-painters--an amazingly rapid and dexterous 
draughtsman, who has Napoleon and all the campaigns by heart, and 
has painted the Grenadier Franais under all sorts of attitudes.  
His pictures on such subjects are spirited, natural, and excellent; 
and he is so clever a man, that all he does is good to a certain 
degree.  His "Judith" is somewhat violent, perhaps.  His "Rebecca" 
most pleasing; and not the less so for a little pretty affectation 
of attitude and needless singularity of costume.  "Raphael and 
Michael Angelo" is as clever a picture as can be--clever is just 
the word--the groups and drawing excellent, the coloring pleasantly 
bright and gaudy; and the French students study it incessantly; 
there are a dozen who copy it for one who copies Delacroix.  His 
little scraps of wood-cuts, in the now publishing "Life of 
Napoleon," are perfect gems in their way, and the noble price paid 
for them not a penny more than he merits.

The picture, by Court, of "The Death of Caesar," is remarkable for 
effect and excellent workmanship: and the head of Brutus (who looks 
like Armand Carrel) is full of energy.  There are some beautiful 
heads of women, and some very good color in the picture.  
Jacquand's "Death of Adelaide de Comminges" is neither more nor 
less than beautiful.  Adelaide had, it appears, a lover, who betook 
himself to a convent of Trappists.  She followed him thither, 
disguised as a man, took the vows, and was not discovered by him 
till on her death-bed.  The painter has told this story in a most 
pleasing and affecting manner: the picture is full of onction and 
melancholy grace.  The objects, too, are capitally represented; and 
the tone and color very good.  Decaisne's "Guardian Angel" is not 
so good in color, but is equally beautiful in expression and grace.  
A little child and a nurse are asleep: an angel watches the infant.  
You see women look very wistfully at this sweet picture; and what 
triumph would a painter have more?

We must not quit the Luxembourg without noticing the dashing sea-
pieces of Gudin, and one or two landscapes by Giroux (the plain of 
Grasivaudan), and "The Prometheus" of Aligny.  This is an 
imitation, perhaps; as is a noble picture of "Jesus Christ and the 
Children," by Flandrin: but the artists are imitating better 
models, at any rate; and one begins to perceive that the odious 
classical dynasty is no more.  Poussin's magnificent "Polyphemus" 
(I only know a print of that marvellous composition) has, perhaps, 
suggested the first-named picture; and the latter has been inspired 
by a good enthusiastic study of the Roman schools.

Of this revolution, Monsieur Ingres has been one of the chief 
instruments.  He was, before Horace Vernet, president of the French 
Academy at Rome, and is famous as a chief of a school.  When he 
broke up his atelier here, to set out for his presidency, many of 
his pupils attended him faithfully some way on his journey; and 
some, with scarcely a penny in their pouches, walked through France 
and across the Alps, in a pious pilgrimage to Rome, being 
determined not to forsake their old master.  Such an action was 
worthy of them, and of the high rank which their profession holds 
in France, where the honors to be acquired by art are only inferior 
to those which are gained in war.  One reads of such peregrinations 
in old days, when the scholars of some great Italian painter 
followed him from Venice to Rome, or from Florence to Ferrara.  In 
regard of Ingres's individual merit as a painter, the writer of 
this is not a fair judge, having seen but three pictures by him; 
one being a plafond in the Louvre, which his disciples much admire.

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 Drer, and which is making progress 
here.

For everything here finds imitation: the French have the genius of 
imitation and caricature.  This absurd humbug, called the Christian 
or Catholic art, is sure to tickle our neighbors, and will be a 
favorite with them, when better known.  My dear MacGilp, I do 
believe this to be a greater humbug than the humbug of David and 
Girodet, inasmuch as the latter was founded on Nature at least; 
whereas the former is made up of silly affectations, and 
improvements upon Nature.  Here, for instance, is Chevalier 
Ziegler's picture of "St. Luke painting the Virgin."  St. Luke has 
a monk's dress on, embroidered, however, smartly round the sleeves.  
The Virgin sits in an immense yellow-ochre halo, with her son in 
her arms.  She looks preternaturally solemn; as does St. Luke, who 
is eying his paint-brush with an intense ominous mystical look.  
They call this Catholic art.  There is nothing, my dear friend, 
more easy in life.  First take your colors, and rub them down 
clean,--bright carmine, bright yellow, bright sienna, bright 
ultramarine, bright green.  Make the costumes of your figures as 
much as possible like the costumes of the early part of the 
fifteenth century.  Paint them in with the above colors; and if on 
a gold ground, the more "Catholic" your art is.  Dress your 
apostles like priests before the altar; and remember to have a good 
commodity of crosiers, censers, and other such gimcracks, as you 
may see in the Catholic chapels, in Sutton Street and elsewhere.  
Deal in Virgins, and dress them like a burgomaster's wife by 
Cranach or Van Eyck.  Give them all long twisted tails to their 
gowns, 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 crach, as Louis Philippe says.  We have it 
still in England, handed down to us for four centuries, in the 
pictures on the cards, as the redoubtable king and queen of clubs.  
Look at them: you will see that the costumes and attitudes are 
precisely similar to those which figure in the catholicities of the 
school of Overbeck and Cornelius.

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  Vnus."  Charming, charming!  It is from the 
exhibition of this year only; and I think the best sculpture in the 
gallery--pretty, fanciful, nave; admirable in workmanship and 
imitation of Nature.  I have seldom seen flesh better represented 
in marble.  Examine, also, Jaley's "Pudeur," Jacquot's "Nymph," and 
Rude's "Boy with the Tortoise."  These are not very exalted 
subjects, or what are called exalted, and do not go beyond simple, 
smiling beauty and nature.  But what then?  Are we gods, Miltons, 
Michel Angelos, that can leave earth when we please; and soar to 
heights immeasurable?  No, my dear MacGilp; but the fools of 
academicians would fain make us so.  Are you not, and half the 
painters in London, panting for an opportunity to show your genius 
in a great "historical picture?"  O blind race!  Have you wings?  
Not a feather: and yet you must be ever puffing, sweating up to the 
tops of rugged hills; and, arrived there, clapping and shaking your 
ragged elbows, and making as if you would fly!  Come down, silly 
Daedalus; come down to the lowly places in which Nature ordered you 
to walk.  The sweet flowers are springing there; the fat muttons 
are waiting there; the pleasant sun shines there; be content and 
humble, and take your share of the good cheer.

While we have been indulging in this discussion, the omnibus has 
gayly conducted us across the water; and le garde qui veille a la 
porte du Louvre ne dfend 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 Rothschilds could not buy.  They 
sleep, perhaps, in a garret, and dine in a cellar; but no grandee 
in Europe has such a drawing-room.  Kings' houses have, at best, 
but damask hangings, and gilt cornices.  What are these to a wall 
covered with canvas by Paul Veronese, or a hundred yards of Rubens?  
Artists from England, who have a national gallery that resembles a 
moderate-sized gin-shop, who may not copy pictures, except under 
particular restrictions, and on rare and particular days, may revel 
here to their hearts' content.  Here is a room half a mile long, 
with as many windows as Aladdin's palace, open from sunrise till 
evening, and free to all manners and all varieties of study: the 
only puzzle to the student is to select the one he shall begin 
upon, and keep his eyes away from the rest.

Fontaine's grand staircase, with its arches, and painted ceilings 
and shining Doric columns, leads directly to the gallery; but 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 ourselves to the Frenchmen only, for the space of this 
letter.

I have seen, in a fine private collection at St. Germain, one or 
two admirable single figures of David, full of life, truth, and 
gayety.  The color is not good, but all the rest excellent; and one 
of these so much-lauded pictures is the portrait of a washer-woman.  
"Pope Pius," at the Louvre, is as bad in color as remarkable for 
its vigor and look of life.  The man had a genius for painting 
portraits and common life, but must attempt the heroic;--failed 
signally; and what is worse, carried a whole nation blundering 
after him.  Had you told a Frenchman so, twenty years ago, he would 
have thrown the dmenti in your teeth; or, at least, laughed at you 
in scornful incredulity.  They say of us that we don't know when we 
are beaten: they go a step further, and swear their defeats are 
victories.  David was a part of the glory of the empire; and one 
might as well have said then that "Romulus" was a bad picture, as 
that Toulouse was a lost battle.  Old-fashioned people, who believe 
in the Emperor, believe in the Thtre Franais, and believe that 
Ducis improved upon Shakspeare, have the above opinion.  Still, it 
is curious to remark, in this place, how art and literature become 
party matters, and political sects have their favorite painters and 
authors.

Nevertheless, Jacques Louis David is dead, he died about a year 
after his bodily demise in 1825.  The romanticism killed him.  
Walter Scott, from his Castle of Abbotsford, sent out a troop of 
gallant young Scotch adventurers, merry outlaws, valiant knights, 
and savage Highlanders, who, with trunk hosen and buff jerkins, 
fierce two-handed swords, and harness on their back, did challenge, 
combat, and overcome the heroes and demigods of Greece and Rome.  
Notre Dame  la rescousse!  Sir Brian de Bois Guilbert has borne 
Hector of Troy clear out of his saddle.  Andromache may weep: but 
her spouse is beyond the reach of physic.  See! Robin Hood twangs 
his bow, and the heathen gods fly, howling.  Montjoie Saint Denis! 
down goes Ajax under the mace of Dunois; and yonder are Leonidas 
and Romulus begging their lives of Rob Roy Macgregor.  Classicism 
is dead.  Sir John Froissart has taken Dr. Lemprire 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 
advantage.  But was there ever anything so absurd as this passion 
for the nude, which was followed by all the painters of the 
Davidian epoch?  And how are we to suppose yonder straddle to be 
the true characteristic of the heroic and the sublime?  Romulus 
stretches his legs as far as ever nature will allow; the Horatii, 
in receiving their swords, think proper to stretch their legs too, 
and to thrust forward their arms, thus,--


[Drawing omitted]


Romulus's is in the exact action of a telegraph; and the Horatii 
are all in the position of the lunge.  Is this the sublime?  Mr. 
Angelo, of Bond Street, might admire the attitude; his namesake, 
Michel, I don't think would.

The little picture of "Paris and Helen," one of the master's 
earliest, I believe, is likewise one of his best: the details are 
exquisitely painted.  Helen looks needlessly sheepish, and Paris 
has a most odious ogle; but the limbs of the male figure are 
beautifully designed, and have not the green tone which you see in 
the later pictures of the master.  What is the meaning of this 
green?  Was it the fashion, or the varnish?  Girodet's pictures
are green; Gros's emperors and grenadiers have universally the 
jaundice.  Gerard's "Psyche" has a most decided green-sickness; and 
I am at a loss, I confess, to account for the enthusiasm which this 
performance inspired on its first appearance before the public.

In the same room with it is Girodet's ghastly "Deluge," and 
Gericault's dismal "Medusa."  Gericault died, they say, for want of 
fame.  He was a man who possessed a considerable fortune of his 
own; but pined because no one in his day would purchase his 
pictures, and so acknowledge his talent.  At present, a scrawl from 
his pencil brings an enormous price.  All his works have a grand 
cachet: he never  did anything mean.  When he painted the "Raft of 
the Medusa," it is said he lived for a long time among the corpses 
which he painted, and that his studio was a second Morgue.  If you 
have not seen the picture, you are familiar probably, with 
Reynolds's admirable engraving of it.  A huge black sea; a raft 
beating upon it; a horrid company of men dead, half dead, writhing 
and frantic with hideous hunger or hideous hope; and, far away, 
black, against a stormy sunset, a sail.  The story is powerfully 
told, and has a legitimate tragic interest, so to speak,--deeper, 
because more natural, than Girodet's green "Deluge," for instance: 
or his livid "Orestes," or red-hot "Clytemnestra."

Seen from a distance the latter's "Deluge" has a certain awe-
inspiring air with it.  A slimy green man stands on a green rock, 
and clutches hold of a tree.  On the green man's shoulders is his 
old father, in a green old age; to him hangs his wife, with a babe 
on her breast, and dangling at her hair, another child.  In the 
water floats a corpse (a beautiful head) and a green sea and 
atmosphere envelops all this dismal group.  The old father is 
represented with a bag of money in his hand; and the tree, which 
the man catches, is cracking, and just on the point of giving way.  
These two points were considered very fine by the critics: they are 
two such ghastly epigrams as continually disfigure French Tragedy.  
For this reason I have never been able to read Racine with 
pleasure,--the dialogue is so crammed with these lugubrious good 
things--melancholy antitheses--sparkling undertakers' wit; but this 
is heresy, and had better be spoken discreetly.

The gallery contains a vast number of Poussin's pictures; they put 
me in mind of the color of objects in dreams,--a strange, hazy, 
lurid hue.  How noble are some of his landscapes!  What a depth of 
solemn shadow is in yonder wood, near which, by the side of a black 
water, halts Diogenes.  The air is thunder-laden, and breathes 
heavily.  You hear ominous whispers in the vast forest gloom.

Near it is a landscape, by Carel Dujardin, I believe, conceived in 
quite a different mood, but exquisitely poetical too.  A horseman 
is riding up a hill, and giving money to a blowsy beggar-wench.  
O matutini rores auraeque salubres! in what a wonderful way has the 
artist managed to create you out of a few bladders of paint and 
pots of varnish.  You can see the matutinal dews twinkling in the 
grass, and feel the fresh, salubrious airs ("the breath of Nature 
blowing free," as the corn-law man sings) blowing free over the 
heath; silvery vapors are rising up from the blue lowlands.  You 
can tell the hour of the morning and the time of the year: you can 
do anything but describe it in words.  As with regard to the 
Poussin above mentioned, one can never pass it without bearing away 
a certain pleasing, dreamy feeling of awe and musing; the other 
landscape inspires the spectator infallibly with the most 
delightful briskness and cheerfulness of spirit.  Herein lies the 
vast privilege of the landscape-painter: he does not address you 
with one fixed particular subject or expression, but with a 
thousand never contemplated by himself, and which only arise out of 
occasion.  You may always be looking at a natural landscape as at a 
fine pictorial imitation of one; it seems eternally producing new 
thoughts in your bosom, as it does fresh beauties from its own.  I 
cannot fancy more delightful, cheerful, silent companions for a man 
than half a dozen landscapes hung round his study.  Portraits, on 
the contrary, and large pieces of figures, have a painful, fixed, 
staring look, which must jar upon the mind in many of its moods.  
Fancy living in a room with David's sans-culotte Leonidas staring 
perpetually in your face!

There is a little Watteau here, and a rare piece of fantastical 
brightness and gayety it is.  What a delightful affectation about 
yonder ladies flirting their fans, and trailing about in their long 
brocades!  What splendid dandies are those, ever-smirking, turning 
out their toes, with broad blue ribbons to tie up their crooks and 
their pigtails, and wonderful gorgeous crimson satin breeches!  
Yonder, in the midst of a golden atmosphere, rises a bevy of little 
round Cupids, bubbling up in clusters as out of a champagne-bottle, 
and melting away in air.  There is, to be sure, a hidden analogy 
between liquors and pictures: the eye is deliciously tickled by 
these frisky Watteaus, and yields itself up to a light, smiling, 
gentlemanlike intoxication.  Thus, were we inclined to pursue 
further this mighty subject, yonder landscape of Claude,--calm, 
fresh, delicate, yet full of flavor,--should be likened to a bottle 
of Chteau Margaux.  And what is the Poussin before spoken of but 
Romane Gele?--heavy, sluggish,--the luscious odor almost sickens 
you; a sultry sort of drink; your limbs sink under it; you feel as 
if you had been drinking hot blood.

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 
Branger, and how many Milton?  If you go to the "Star and Garter," 
don't you grow sick of that vast, luscious landscape, and long for 
the sight of a couple of cows, or a donkey, and a few yards of 
common?  Donkeys, my dear MacGilp, since we have come to this 
subject, say not so; Richmond Hill for them.  Milton they never 
grow tired of; and are as familiar with Raphael as Bottom with 
exquisite Titania.  Let us thank heaven, my dear sir, for according 
to us the power to taste and appreciate the pleasures of 
mediocrity.  I have never heard that we were great geniuses.  
Earthy are we, and of the earth; glimpses of the sublime are but 
rare to us; leave we them to great geniuses, and to the donkeys; 
and if it nothing profit us arias tentsse domos along with them, 
let us thankfully remain below, being merry and humble.

I have now only to mention the charming "Cruche Casse" of Greuze, 
which all the young ladies delight to copy; and of which the color 
(a thought too blue, perhaps) is marvellously graceful and 
delicate.  There are three more pictures by the artist, containing 
exquisite female heads and color; but they have charms for French 
critics which are difficult to be discovered by English eyes; and 
the pictures seem weak to me.  A very fine picture by Bon 
Bollongue, "Saint Benedict resuscitating a Child," deserves 
particular attention, and is superb in vigor and richness of color.  
You must look, too, at the large, noble, melancholy landscapes of 
Philippe de Champagne; and the two magnificent Italian pictures of 
Lopold Robert: they are, perhaps, the very finest pictures that 
the French school has produced,--as deep as Poussin, of a better 
color, and of a wonderful minuteness and veracity in the 
representation of objects.

Every one of Lesueur's church-pictures is worth examining and 
admiring; they are full of "unction" and pious mystical grace.  
"Saint Scholastica" is divine; and the "Taking down from the Cross" 
as noble a composition as ever was seen; I care not by whom the 
other may be.  There is more beauty, and less affectation, about 
this picture than you will find in the performances of many Italian 
masters, with high-sounding names (out with it, and say RAPHAEL at 
once).  I hate those simpering Madonnas.  I declare that the 
"Jardinire" is a puking, smirking miss, with nothing heavenly 
about her.  I vow that the "Saint Elizabeth" is a bad picture,--a 
bad composition, badly drawn, badly colored, in a bad imitation of 
Titian,--a piece of vile affectation.  I say, that when Raphael 
painted this picture two years before his death, the spirit of 
painting had gone from out of him; he was no longer inspired; IT 
WAS TIME THAT HE SHOULD DIE!!

There,--the murder is out!  My paper is filled to the brim, and 
there is no time to speak of Lesueur's "Crucifixion," which is 
odiously colored, to be sure; but earnest, tender, simple, holy.  
But such things are most difficult to translate into words;--one 
lays down the pen, and thinks and thinks.  The figures appear, and 
take their places one by one: ranging themselves according to 
order, in light or in gloom, the colors are reflected duly in the 
little camera obscura of the brain, and the whole picture lies 
there complete; but can you describe it?  No, not if pens were 
fitch-brushes, and words were bladders of paint.  With which, for 
the present, adieu.

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 portraits to 
admiration, only nobody came to sit to him.

As he was not gaining five pounds a year by his profession, and had 
arrived at the age of twenty, at least, Simon determined to better 
himself by taking a wife,--a plan which a number of other wise men 
adopt, in similar years and circumstances.  So Simon prevailed upon 
a butcher's daughter (to whom he owed considerably for cutlets) to 
quit the meat-shop and follow him.  Griskinissa--such was the fair 
creature's name--"was as lovely a bit of mutton," her father said, 
"as ever a man would wish to stick a knife into."  She had sat to 
the painter for all sorts of characters; and the curious who 
possess any of Gambouge's pictures will see her as Venus, Minerva, 
Madonna, and in numberless other characters: Portrait of a lady--
Griskinissa; Sleeping Nymph--Griskinissa, without a rag of clothes, 
lying in a forest; Maternal Solicitude--Griskinissa again, with 
young Master Gambouge, who was by this time the offspring of their 
affections.

The lady brought the painter a handsome little fortune of a couple 
of hundred pounds; and as long as this sum lasted no woman could be 
more lovely or loving.  But want began speedily to attack their 
little household; bakers' bills were unpaid; rent was due, and the 
reckless landlord gave no quarter; and, to crown the whole, her 
father, unnatural butcher! suddenly stopped the supplies of mutton-
chops; and swore that his daughter, and the dauber; her husband, 
should have no more of his wares.  At first they embraced tenderly, 
and, kissing and crying over their little infant, vowed to heaven 
that they would do without: but in the course of the evening 
Griskinissa grew peckish, and poor Simon pawned his best coat.

When this habit of pawning is discovered, it appears to the poor a 
kind of Eldorado.  Gambouge and his wife were so delighted, that 
they, in the course of a month, made away with her gold chain, her 
great warming-pan, his best crimson plush inexpressibles, two wigs, 
a washhand basin and ewer, fire-irons, window-curtains, crockery, 
and arm-chairs.  Griskinissa said, smiling, that she had found a 
second father in HER UNCLE,--a base pun, which showed that her 
mind was corrupted, and that she was no longer the tender, simple 
Griskinissa of other days.

I am sorry to say that she had taken to drinking; she swallowed the 
warming-pan in the course of three days, and fuddled herself one 
whole evening with the crimson plush breeches.

Drinking is the devil--the father, that is to say, of all vices.  
Griskinissa's face and her mind grew ugly together; her good humor 
changed to bilious, bitter discontent; her pretty, fond epithets, 
to foul abuse and swearing; her tender blue eyes grew watery and 
blear, and the peach-color on her cheeks fled from its old 
habitation, and crowded up into her nose, where, with a number of 
pimples, it stuck fast.  Add to this a dirty, draggle-tailed 
chintz; long, matted hair, wandering into her eyes, and over her 
lean shoulders, which were once so snowy, and you have the picture 
of drunkenness and Mrs. Simon Gambouge.

Poor Simon, who had been a gay, lively fellow enough in the days of 
his better fortune, was completely cast down by his present ill 
luck, and cowed by the ferocity of his wife.  From morning till 
night the neighbors could hear this woman's tongue, and understand 
her doings; bellows went skimming across the room, chairs were 
flumped down on the floor, and poor Gambouge's oil and varnish pots 
went clattering through the windows, or down the stairs.  The baby 
roared all day; and Simon sat pale and idle in a corner, taking a 
small sup at the brandy-bottle, when Mrs. Gambouge was out of the 
way.

One day, as he sat disconsolately at his easel, furbishing up a 
picture of his wife, in the character of Peace, which he had 
commenced a year before, he was more than ordinarily desperate, and 
cursed and swore in the most pathetic manner.  "O miserable fate of 
genius!" cried he, "was I, a man of such commanding talents, born 
for this? to be bullied by a fiend of a wife; to have my 
masterpieces neglected by the world, or sold only for a few pieces?  
Cursed be the love which has misled me; cursed, be the art which is 
unworthy of me!  Let me dig or steal, let me sell myself as a 
soldier, or sell myself to the Devil, I should not be more wretched 
than I am now!"

"Quite the contrary," cried a small, cheery voice.

"What!" exclaimed Gambouge, trembling and surprised.  "Who's 
there?--where are you?--who are you?"

"You were just speaking of me," said the voice.

Gambouge held, in his left hand, his palette; in his right, a 
bladder of crimson lake, which he was about to squeeze out upon the 
mahogany.  "Where are you?" cried he again.

"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, turning head over heels, asked 
the poor painter what he wanted with him.

The strange little animal twisted head over heels, and fixed 
himself at last upon the top of Gambouge's easel,--smearing out, 
with his heels, all the white and vermilion which had just been 
laid on the allegoric portrait of Mrs. Gambouge.

"What!" exclaimed Simon, "is it the--"

"Exactly so; talk of me, you know, and I am always at hand: 
besides, I am not half so black as I am painted, as you will see 
when you know me a little better."

"Upon my word," said the painter, "it is a very singular surprise 
which you have given me.  To tell truth, I did not even believe in 
your existence."

The little imp put on a theatrical air, and, with one of Mr. 
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 of yours, 
called, by some poet of your own, I think, an animula, vagula, 
blandula--bah! there is no use beating about the bush--I mean A 
SOUL.  Come, let me have it; you know you will sell it some other 
way, and not get such good pay for your bargain!"--and, having made 
this speech, the Devil pulled out from his fob a sheet as big as a 
double Times, only there was a different STAMP in the corner.

It is useless and tedious to describe law documents: lawyers only 
love to read them; and they have as good in Chitty as any that are 
to be found in the Devil's own; so nobly have the apprentices 
emulated the skill of the master.  Suffice it to say, that poor 
Gambouge read over the paper, and signed it.  He was to have all he 
wished for seven years, and at the end of that time was to become 
the property of the -----; PROVIDED that, during the course of the 
seven years, every single wish which he might form should be 
gratified by the other of the contracting parties; otherwise the 
deed became null and non-avenue, and Gambouge should be left "to go 
to the ----- his own way."

"You will never see me again," said Diabolus, in shaking hands with 
poor Simon, on whose fingers he left such a mark as is to be seen 
at this day--"never, at least, unless you want me; for everything 
you ask will be performed in the most quiet and every-day manner: 
believe me, it is best and most gentlemanlike, and avoids anything 
like scandal.  But if you set me about anything which is 
extraordinary, and out of the course of nature, as it were, come I 
must, you know; and of this you are the best judge."  So saying, 
Diabolus disappeared; but whether up the chimney, through the 
keyhole, or by any other aperture or contrivance, nobody knows.  
Simon Gambouge was left in a fever of delight, as, heaven forgive 
me! I believe many a worthy man would be, if he were allowed an 
opportunity to make a similar bargain.

"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-colored flask of Sauterne.

"I am the new boy, sir," exclaimed this youth, on entering; "but I 
believe this is the right door, and you asked for these things."

Simon grinned, and said, "Certainly, I did ASK FOR these things."  
But such was the effect which his interview with the demon had had 
on his innocent mind, that he took them, although he knew that they 
were for old Simon, the Jew dandy, who was mad after an opera girl, 
and lived on the floor beneath.

"Go, my boy," he said; "it is good: call in a couple of hours, and 
remove the plates and glasses."

The little waiter trotted down stairs, and Simon sat greedily down 
to discuss the capon and the white wine.  He bolted the legs, he 
devoured the wings, he cut every morsel of flesh from the breast;--
seasoning his repast with pleasant draughts of wine, and caring 
nothing for the inevitable bill, which was to follow all.

"Ye gods!" said he, as he scraped away at the backbone, "what a 
dinner! what wine!--and how gayly served up too!"  There were 
silver forks and spoons, and the remnants of the fowl were upon a 
silver dish.  "Why, the money for this dish and these spoons," 
cried Simon, "would keep me and Mrs. G. for a month!  I WISH"--and 
here Simon whistled, and turned round to see that nobody was 
peeping--"I wish the plate were mine."

Oh, the horrid progress of the Devil!  "Here they are," thought 
Simon to himself; "why should not I TAKE THEM?"  And take them he 
did.  "Detection," said he, "is not so bad as starvation; and I 
would as soon live at the galleys as live with Madame Gambouge."

So Gambouge shovelled dish and spoons into the flap of his surtout, 
and ran down stairs as if the Devil were behind him--as, indeed, he 
was.

He immediately made for the house of his old friend the pawnbroker--
that establishment which is called in France the Mont de Pit.  
"I am obliged to come to you again, my old friend," said Simon, 
"with some family plate, of which I beseech you to take care."

The pawnbroker smiled as he examined the goods.  "I can give you 
nothing upon them," said he.

"What!" cried Simon; "not even the worth of the silver?"

"No; I could buy them at that price at the 'Caf Morisot,' Rue de 
la Verrerie, where, I suppose, you got them a little cheaper."  
And, so saying, he showed to the guilt-stricken Gambouge how the 
name of that coffee-house was inscribed upon every one of the 
articles which he had wished to pawn.

The effects of conscience are dreadful indeed.  Oh! how fearful is 
retribution, how deep is despair, how bitter is remorse for crime--
WHEN CRIME IS FOUND OUT!--otherwise, conscience takes matters much 
more easily.  Gambouge cursed his fate, and swore henceforth to be 
virtuous.

"But, hark ye, my friend," continued the honest broker, "there is 
no reason why, because I cannot lend upon these things, I should 
not buy them: they will do to melt, if for no other purpose.  Will 
you have half the money?--speak, or I peach."

Simon's resolves about virtue were dissipated instantaneously.  
"Give me half," he said, "and let me go.--What scoundrels are these 
pawnbrokers!" ejaculated he, as he passed out of the accursed shop, 
"seeking every wicked pretext to rob the poor man of his hard-won 
gain."

When he had marched forwards for a street or two, Gambouge counted 
the money which he had received, and found that he was in possession
of no less than a hundred francs.  It was night, as he reckoned out
his equivocal gains, and he counted them at the light of a lamp.  He
looked up at the lamp, in doubt as to the course he should next
pursue: upon it was inscribed the simple number, 152.  "A
gambling-house," thought Gambouge.  "I wish I had half the money
that is now on the table, up stairs."

He mounted, as many a rogue has done before him, and found half a 
hundred persons busy at a table of rouge et noir.  Gambouge's five 
napoleons looked insignificant by the side of the heaps which were 
around him; but the effects of the wine, of the theft, and of the 
detection by the pawnbroker, were upon him, and he threw down his 
capital stoutly upon the 0 0.

It is a dangerous spot that 0 0, or double zero; but to Simon it 
was more lucky than to the rest of the world.  The ball went 
spinning round--in "its predestined circle rolled," as Shelley has 
it, after Goethe--and plumped down at last in the double zero.  One 
hundred and thirty-five gold napoleons (louis they were then) were 
counted out to the delighted painter.  "Oh, Diabolus!" cried he, 
"now it is that I begin to believe in thee!  Don't talk about 
merit," he cried; "talk about fortune.  Tell me not about heroes 
for the future--tell me of ZEROES."  And down went twenty napoleons 
more upon the 0.

The Devil was certainly in the ball: round it twirled, and dropped 
into zero as naturally as a duck pops its head into a pond.  Our 
friend received five hundred pounds for his stake; and the 
croupiers and lookers-on began to stare at him.

There were twelve thousand pounds 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 honesty!" he cried, "how unworthy is an 
action like this of a man who has a property like mine!"  So he 
went back to the pawnbroker with the gloomiest face imaginable.  
"My friend," said he, "I have sinned against all that I hold most 
sacred: I have forgotten my family and my religion.  Here is thy 
money.  In the name of heaven, restore me the plate which I have 
wrongfully sold thee!"

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 payment of two years' lodging.  To raise it, I have toiled
for many months; and, failing, I have been a criminal.  O heaven!  
I STOLE that plate that I might pay my debt, and keep my dear wife
from wandering houseless.  But I cannot bear this load of ignominy--
I cannot suffer the thought of this crime.  I will go to the person
to whom I did wrong, I will starve, I will confess; but I will, I
WILL do right!"

The broker was alarmed.  "Give me thy note," he cried; "here is the 
plate."

"Give me an acquittal first," cried Simon, almost broken-hearted; 
"sign me a paper, and the money is yours."  So Troisboules wrote 
according to Gambouge's dictation; "Received, for thirteen ounces 
of plate, twenty pounds."

"Monster of iniquity!" cried the painter, "fiend of wickedness! 
thou art caught in thine own snares.  Hast thou not sold me five 
pounds' worth of plate for twenty?  Have I it not in my pocket?  
Art thou not a convicted dealer in stolen goods?  Yield, scoundrel, 
yield thy money, or I will bring thee to justice!"

The frightened pawnbroker bullied and battled for a while; but he 
gave up his money at last, and the dispute ended.  Thus it will be 
seen that Diabolus had rather a hard bargain in the wily Gambouge.  
He had taken a victim prisoner, but he had assuredly caught a 
Tartar.  Simon now returned home, and, to do him justice, paid the 
bill for his dinner, and restored the plate.

And now I may add (and the reader should ponder upon this, as a 
profound picture of human life), that Gambouge, since he had grown 
rich, grew likewise abundantly moral.  He was a most exemplary 
father.  He fed the poor, and was loved by them.  He scorned a 
base action.  And I have no doubt that Mr. Thurtell, or the late 
lamented Mr. Greenacre, in similar circumstances, would have acted 
like the worthy Simon Gambouge.

There was but one blot upon his character--he hated Mrs. Gam. worse 
than ever.  As he grew more benevolent, she grew more virulent: 
when he went to plays, she went to Bible societies, and vice vers: 
in fact, she led him such a life as Xantippe led Socrates, or as a 
dog leads a cat in the same kitchen.  With all his fortune--for, as 
may be supposed, Simon prospered in all worldly things--he was the 
most miserable dog in the whole city of Paris.  Only in the point 
of drinking did he and Mrs. Simon agree; and for many years, and 
during a considerable number of hours in each day, he thus 
dissipated, partially, his domestic chagrin.  O philosophy! we may 
talk of thee: but, except at the bottom of the winecup, where thou 
liest like truth in a well, where shall we find thee?

He lived so long, and in his worldly matters prospered so much, 
there was so little sign of devilment in the accomplishment of his 
wishes, and the increase of his prosperity, that Simon, at the end 
of six years, began to doubt whether he had made any such bargain 
at all, as that which we have described at the commencement of this 
history.  He had grown, as we said, very pious and moral.  He went 
regularly to mass, and had a confessor into the bargain.  He 
resolved, therefore, to consult that reverend gentleman, and to lay 
before him the whole matter.

"I am inclined to think, holy sir," said Gambouge, after he had 
concluded his history, and shown how, in some miraculous way, all 
his desires were accomplished, "that, after all, this demon was no 
other than the creation of my own brain, heated by the effects of 
that bottle of wine, the cause of my crime and my prosperity."

The confessor agreed with him, and they walked out of church 
comfortably together, and entered afterwards a caf, where they sat 
down to refresh themselves after the fatigues of their devotion.

A respectable old gentleman, with a number of orders at his 
buttonhole, presently entered the room, and sauntered up to the 
marble table, before which reposed Simon and his clerical friend.  
"Excuse me, gentlemen," he said, as he took a place opposite them, 
and began reading the papers of the day.

"Bah!" said he, at last,--"sont-ils grands ces journaux Anglais?  
Look, sir," he said, handing over an immense sheet of The Times to 
Mr. Gambouge, "was ever anything so monstrous?"

Gambouge smiled politely, and examined the proffered page.  "It is 
enormous" he said; "but I do not read English."

"Nay," said the man with the orders, "look closer at it, Signor 
Gambouge; it is astonishing how easy the language is." 

Wondering, Simon took a sheet of paper.  He turned pale as he 
looked at it, and began to curse the ices and the waiter.  "Come, 
M. l'Abb," 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 Abb 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 careful than ever.  He had 
consultations with all the doctors of the Sorbonne and all the 
lawyers of the Palais.  But his magnificence grew as wearisome to 
him as his poverty had been before; and not one of the doctors whom 
he consulted could give him a pennyworth of consolation.

Then he grew outrageous in his demands upon the Devil, 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!"

Gambouge caught at the notion, and hurried off a courier to Rome 
ventre  terre.  His Holiness agreed to the request of the 
petition, and sent him an absolution, written out with his own 
fist, and all in due form.

"Now," said he, "foul fiend, I defy you! arise, Diabolus! your 
contract is not worth a jot: the Pope has absolved me, and I am 
safe on the road to salvation."  In a fervor of gratitude he 
clasped the hand of his confessor, and embraced him: tears of joy 
ran down the cheeks of these good men.

They heard an inordinate roar of laughter, and there was Diabolus 
sitting opposite to them, holding his sides, and lashing his tail 
about, as if he would have gone mad with glee.

"Why," said he, "what nonsense is this! do you suppose I care about 
THAT?" and he tossed the Pope's missive into a corner.  "M. l'Abb 
knows," he said, bowing and grinning, "that though the Pope's paper 
may pass current HERE, it is not worth twopence in our country.  
What do I care about the Pope's absolution?  You might just as well 
be absolved by your under butler."

"Egad," said the Abb, "the rogue is right--I quite forgot the 
fact, which he points out clearly enough."

"No, no, Gambouge," continued Diabolus, with horrid familiarity.  
"go thy ways, old fellow, that COCK WON'T FIGHT."  And he retired 
up the chimney, chuckling at his wit and his triumph.  Gambouge 
heard his tail scuttling all the way up, as if he had been a 
sweeper by profession.

Simon was left in that condition of grief in which, according to 
the newspapers, cities and nations are found when a murder is 
committed, or a lord ill of the gout--a situation, we say, more 
easy to imagine than to describe.

To add to his woes, Mrs. Gambouge, who was now first made acquainted
with his compact, and its probable consequences, raised such a storm
about his ears, as made him wish almost that his seven years were
expired.  She screamed, she scolded, she swore, she wept, she went
into such fits of hysterics, that poor Gambouge, who had completely
knocked under to her, was worn out of his life.  He was allowed no
rest, night or day: he moped about his fine house, solitary and
wretched, and cursed his stars that he ever had married the
butcher's daughter.

It wanted six months of the time.

A sudden and desperate resolution seemed all at once to have taken 
possession of Simon Gambouge.  He called his family and his friends 
together--he gave one of the greatest feasts that ever was known in 
the city of Paris--he gayly 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 tittered, and longed to see the monster: 
everybody was pale with expectation and affright.

A very quiet, gentlemanly man, neatly dressed in black, made his 
appearance, to the surprise of all present, and bowed all round to 
the company.  "I will not show my CREDENTIALS," he said, blushing, 
and pointing to his hoofs, which were cleverly hidden by his pumps 
and shoe-buckles, "unless the ladies absolutely wish it; but I am 
the person you want, Mr. Gambouge; pray tell me what is your will."

"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 honor, as a gentleman," said Diabolus, bowing, and laying 
his hand upon his waistcoat.

A whisper of applause ran round the room: all were charmed with the 
bland manners of the fascinating stranger.

"My love," continued Gambouge, mildly addressing his lady, "will 
you be so polite as to step this way?  You know I must go soon, and 
I am anxious, before this noble company, to make a provision for 
one who, in sickness as in health, in poverty as in riches, has 
been my truest and fondest companion."

Gambouge mopped his eyes with his handkerchief--all the company did 
likewise.  Diabolus sobbed audibly, and Mrs. Gambouge sidled up to 
her husband's side, and took him tenderly by the hand.  "Simon!" 
said she, "is it true? and do you really love your Griskinissa?"

Simon continued solemnly: "Come hither, Diabolus; you are bound to 
obey me in all things for the six months during which our contract 
has to run; take, then, Griskinissa Gambouge, live alone with her 
for half a year, never leave her from morning till night, obey all 
her caprices, follow all her whims, and listen to all the abuse 
which falls from her infernal tongue.  Do this, and I ask no more 
of you; I will deliver myself up at the appointed time."

Not Lord G---, when flogged by lord B---, in the House,--not Mr. 
Cartlitch, of Astley's Amphitheatre, in his most pathetic passages, 
could look more crestfallen, and howl more hideously, than Diabolus 
did now.  "Take another year, Gambouge," screamed he; "two more--
ten more--a century; roast me on Lawrence's gridiron, boil me in 
holy water, but don't ask that: don't, don't bid me live with Mrs. 
Gambouge!"

Simon smiled sternly.  "I have said it," he cried; "do this, or our 
contract is at an end."

The Devil, at this, grinned so horribly that every drop of beer in 
the house turned sour: he gnashed his teeth so frightfully that 
every person in the company wellnigh fainted with the cholic.  He 
slapped down the great 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.

My last accounts of Gambouge are, that he has left the arts, and is 
footman in a small family.  Mrs. Gam. takes in washing; and it is 
said that, her continual dealings with soap-suds and hot water have 
been the only things in life which have kept her from spontaneous 
combustion.



CARTOUCHE.


I have been much interested with an account of the exploits of 
Monsieur Louis Dominic Cartouche, and as Newgate and the highways 
are so much the fashion with us in England, we may be allowed to 
look abroad for histories of a similar tendency.  It is pleasant to 
find that virtue is cosmopolite, and may exist among wooden-shoed 
Papists as well as honest Church-of-England men.

Louis Dominic was born in a quarter of Paris called the Courtille, 
says the historian whose work lies before me;--born in the 
Courtille, and in the year 1693.  Another biographer asserts that 
he was born two years later, and in the Marais;--of respectable 
parents, of course.  Think of the talent that our two countries 
produced about this time: Marlborough, Villars, Mandrin, Turpin, 
Boileau, Dryden, Swift, Addison, Molire, Racine, Jack Sheppard, 
and Louis Cartouche,--all famous within the same twenty years, and 
fighting, writing, robbing  l'envi!

Well, Marlborough was no chicken when he began to show his genius; 
Swift was but a dull, idle, college lad; but if we read the 
histories of some other great men mentioned in the above list--
I mean the thieves, especially--we shall find that they all
commenced very early: they showed a passion for their art, as 
little Raphael did, or little Mozart; and the history of Cartouche's
knaveries begins almost with his breeches.

Dominic's parents sent him to school at the college of Clermont 
(now Louis le Grand); and although it has never been discovered 
that the Jesuits, who directed that seminary, advanced him much in 
classical or theological knowledge, Cartouche, in revenge, showed, 
by repeated instances, his own natural bent and genius, which no 
difficulties were strong enough to overcome.  His first great 
action on record, although not successful in the end, and tinctured 
with the innocence of youth, is yet highly creditable to him.  He 
made a general swoop of a hundred and twenty nightcaps belonging to 
his companions, and disposed of them to his satisfaction; but as it 
was discovered that of all the youths in the college of Clermont, 
he only was the possessor of a cap to sleep in, suspicion (which, 
alas! was confirmed) immediately fell upon him: and by this little 
piece of youthful navet, 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, occasionally, on honest principles of 
barter; that is, whenever he could get hold of his schoolfellows' 
knives, books, rulers, or playthings, which he used fairly to 
exchange for tarts and gingerbread.

It seemed as if the presiding genius of evil was determined to 
patronize this young man; for before he had been long at college, 
and soon after he had, with the greatest difficulty, escaped from 
the nightcap scrape, an opportunity occurred by which he was 
enabled to gratify both his propensities at once, and not only to 
steal, but to steal sweetmeats.  It happened that the principal of 
the college received some pots of Narbonne honey, which came under 
the eyes of Cartouche, and in which that young gentleman, as soon 
as ever he saw them, determined to put his fingers.  The president 
of the college put aside his honey-pots in an apartment within his 
own; to which, except by the one door which led into the room which 
his reverence usually occupied, there was no outlet.  There was no 
chimney in the room; and the windows looked into the court, where 
there was a porter at night, and where crowds passed by day.  What 
was Cartouche to do?--have the honey he must.

Over this chamber, which contained what his soul longed after, and 
over the president's rooms, there ran a set of unoccupied garrets, 
into which the dexterous Cartouche penetrated.  These were divided 
from the rooms below, according to the fashion of those days, by a 
set of large beams, which reached across the whole building, and 
across which rude planks were laid, which formed the ceiling of the 
lower story and the floor of the upper.  Some of these planks did 
young Cartouche remove; and having descended by means of a rope, 
tied a couple of others to the neck of the honey-pots, climbed back 
again, and drew up his prey in safety.  He then cunningly fixed the 
planks again in their old places, and retired to gorge himself upon 
his booty.  And, now, see the punishment of avarice!  Everybody 
knows that the brethren of the order of Jesus are bound by a vow to 
have no more than a certain small sum of money in their possession.  
The principal of the college of Clermont had amassed a larger sum, 
in defiance of this rule: and where do you think the old gentleman 
had hidden it?  In the honey-pots!  As Cartouche dug his spoon into 
one of them, he brought out, besides a quantity of golden honey, a 
couple of golden louis, which, with ninety-eight more of their 
fellows, were comfortably hidden in the pots.  Little Dominic, who, 
before, had cut rather a poor figure among his fellow-students, now 
appeared in as fine clothes as any of them could boast of; and when 
asked by his parents, on going home, how he came by them, said that 
a young nobleman of his schoolfellows had taken a violent fancy to 
him, and made him a present of a couple of his suits.  Cartouche 
the elder, good man, went to thank the young nobleman; but none 
such could be found, and young Cartouche disdained to give any 
explanation of his manner of gaining the money.

Here, again, we have to regret and remark the inadvertence of 
youth.  Cartouche lost a hundred louis--for what?  For a pot of 
honey not worth a couple of shillings.  Had he fished out the 
pieces, and replaced the pots and the honey, he might have been 
safe, and a respectable citizen all his life after.  The principal 
would not have dared to confess the loss of his money, and did not, 
openly; but he vowed vengeance against the stealer of his 
sweetmeat, and a rigid search was made.  Cartouche, as usual, was 
fixed upon; and in the tick of his bed, lo! there were found a 
couple of empty honey-pots!  From this scrape there is no knowing 
how he would have escaped, had not the president himself been a 
little anxious to hush the matter up; and accordingly, young 
Cartouche was made to disgorge the residue of his ill-gotten gold 
pieces, old Cartouche made up the deficiency, and his son was 
allowed to remain unpunished--until the next time.

This, you may fancy, was not very long in coming; and though 
history has not made us acquainted with the exact crime which Louis 
Dominic next committed, it must have been a serious one; for 
Cartouche, who had borne philosophically all the whippings and 
punishments which were administered to him at college, did not dare 
to face that one which his indignant father had in pickle for him.  
As he was coming home from school, on the first day after his 
crime, when he received permission to go abroad, one of his 
brothers, who was on the look-out for him, met him at a short 
distance from home, and told him what was in preparation; which so 
frightened this young thief, that he declined returning home 
altogether, and set out upon the wide world to shift for himself 
as he could.

Undoubted as his genius was, he had not arrived at the full 
exercise of it, and his gains were by no means equal to his 
appetite.  In whatever professions he tried,--whether he joined the 
gipsies, which he did,--whether he picked pockets on the Pont Neuf, 
which occupation history attributes to him,--poor Cartouche was 
always hungry.  Hungry and ragged, he wandered from one place and 
profession to another, and regretted the honey-pots at Clermont, 
and the comfortable soup and bouilli at home.

Cartouche had an uncle, a kind man, who was a merchant, and had 
dealings at Rouen.  One day, walking on the quays of that city, 
this gentleman saw a very miserable, dirty, starving lad, who had 
just made a pounce upon some bones and turnip-peelings, that had 
been flung out on the quay, and was eating them as greedily as if 
they had been turkeys and truffles.  The worthy man examined the 
lad a little closer.  O heavens! it was their runaway prodigal--it 
was little Louis Dominic!  The merchant was touched by his case; 
and forgetting the nightcaps, the honey-pots, and the rags and dirt 
of little Louis, took him to his arms, and kissed and hugged him 
with the tenderest affection.  Louis kissed and hugged too, and 
blubbered a great deal: he was very repentant, as a man often is 
when he is hungry; and he went home with his uncle, and his peace 
was made; and his mother got him new clothes, and filled his belly, 
and for a while Louis was as good a son as might be.

But why attempt to balk the progress of genius?  Louis's was not to 
be kept down.  He was sixteen years of age by this time--a smart, 
lively young fellow, and, what is more, desperately enamored of a 
lovely washerwoman.  To be successful in your love, as Louis knew, 
you must have something more than mere flames and sentiment;--a 
washer, or any other woman, cannot live upon sighs only; but must 
have new gowns and caps, and a necklace every now and then, and a 
few handkerchiefs and silk stockings, and a treat into the country 
or to the play.  Now, how are all these things to be had without 
money?  Cartouche saw at once that it was impossible; and as his 
father would give him none, he was obliged to look for it 
elsewhere.  He took to his old courses, and lifted a purse here, 
and a watch there; and found, moreover, an accommodating gentleman, 
who took the wares off his hands.

This gentleman introduced him into a very select and agreeable 
society, in which Cartouche's merit began speedily to be 
recognized, and in which he learnt how pleasant it is in life to 
have friends to assist one, and how much may be done by a proper 
division of labor.  M. Cartouche, in fact, formed part of a regular 
company or gang of gentlemen, who were associated together for the 
purpose of making war on the public and the law.

Cartouche had a lovely young sister, who was to be married to a 
rich young gentleman from the provinces.  As is the fashion in 
France, the parents had arranged the match among themselves; and 
the young people had never met until just before the time appointed 
for the marriage, when the bridegroom came up to Paris with his 
title-deeds, and settlements, and money.  Now there can hardly be 
found in history a finer instance of devotion than Cartouche now 
exhibited.  He went to his captain, explained the matter to him, 
and actually, for the good of his country, as it were (the thieves 
might be called his country), sacrificed his sister's husband's 
property.  Informations were taken, the house of the bridegroom was 
reconnoitred, and, one night, Cartouche, in company with some 
chosen friends, made his first visit to the house of his brother-
in-law.  All the people were gone to bed; and, doubtless, for fear 
of disturbing the porter, Cartouche and his companions spared him 
the trouble of opening the door, by ascending quietly at the 
window.  They arrived at the room where the bridegroom kept his 
great chest, and set industriously to work, filing and picking the 
locks which defended the treasure.

The bridegroom slept in the next room; but however tenderly 
Cartouche and his workmen handled their tools, from fear of 
disturbing his slumbers, their benevolent design was disappointed, 
for awaken him they did; and quietly slipping out of bed, he came 
to a place where he had a complete view of all that was going on.  
He did not cry out, or frighten himself sillily; but, on the 
contrary, contented himself with watching the countenances of the 
robbers, so that he might recognize them on another occasion; and, 
though an avaricious man, he did not feel the slightest anxiety 
about his money-chest; for the fact is, he had removed all the cash 
and papers the day before.

As soon, however, as they had broken all the locks, and found the 
nothing which lay at the bottom of the chest, he shouted with such 
a loud voice, "Here, Thomas!--John!--officer!--keep the gate, fire 
at the rascals!" that they, incontinently taking fright, skipped 
nimbly out of window, and left the house free.

Cartouche, after this, did not care to meet his brother-in-law, but 
eschewed all those occasions on which the latter was to be present 
at his father's house.  The evening before the marriage came; and 
then his father insisted upon his appearance among the other 
relatives of the bride's and bridegroom's families, who were all to 
assemble and make merry.  Cartouche was obliged to yield; and 
brought with him one or two of his companions, who had been, by the 
way, present in the affair of the empty money-boxes; and though he 
never fancied that there was any danger in meeting his brother-in-
law, for he had no idea that he had been seen on the night of the 
attack, with a natural modesty, which did him really credit, he 
kept out of the young bridegroom's sight as much as he could, and 
showed no desire to be presented to him.  At supper, however, as he 
was sneaking modestly down to a side-table, his father shouted 
after him, "Ho, Dominic, come hither, and sit opposite to your 
brother-in-law:" which Dominic did, his friends following.  The 
bridegroom pledged him very gracefully in a bumper; and was in the 
act of making him a pretty speech, on the honor of an alliance with 
such a family, and on the pleasures of brother-in-lawship in 
general, when, looking in his face--ye gods! he saw the very man 
who had been filing at his money-chest a few nights ago!  By his 
side, too, sat a couple more of the gang.  The poor fellow turned 
deadly pale and sick, and, setting his glass down, ran quickly out 
of the room, for he thought he was in company of a whole gang of 
robbers.  And when he got home, he wrote a letter to the elder 
Cartouche, humbly declining any connection with his family.

Cartouche the elder, of course, angrily asked the reason of such an 
abrupt dissolution of the engagement; and then, much to his horror, 
heard of his eldest son's doings.  "You would not have me marry 
into such a family?" said the ex-bridegroom.  And old Cartouche, an 
honest old citizen, confessed, with a heavy heart, that he would 
not.  What was he to do with the lad?  He did not like to ask for a 
lettre de cachet, and shut him up in the Bastile.  He determined to 
give him a year's discipline at the monastery of St. Lazare.

But how to catch the young gentleman?  Old Cartouche knew that, 
were he to tell his son of the scheme, the latter would never obey, 
and, therefore, he determined to be very cunning.  He told Dominic 
that he was about to make a heavy bargain with the fathers, and 
should require a witness; so they stepped into a carriage together, 
and drove unsuspectingly to the Rue St. Denis.  But, when they 
arrived near the convent, Cartouche saw several ominous figures 
gathering round the coach, and felt that his doom was sealed.  
However, he made as if he knew nothing of the conspiracy; and the 
carriage drew up, and his father, descended, and, bidding him wait 
for a minute in the coach, promised to return to him.  Cartouche 
looked out; on the other side of the way half a dozen men were 
posted, evidently with the intention of arresting him.

Cartouche now performed a great and celebrated stroke of genius, 
which, if he had not been professionally employed in the morning, 
he never could have executed.  He had in his pocket a piece of 
linen, which he had laid hold of at the door of some shop, and from 
which he quickly tore three suitable stripes.  One he tied round 
his head, after the fashion of a nightcap; a second round his 
waist, like an apron; and with the third he covered his hat, a 
round one, with a large brim.  His coat and his periwig lie left 
behind him in the carriage; and when he stepped out from it (which 
he did without asking the coachman to let down the steps), he bore 
exactly the appearance of a cook's boy carrying a dish; and with 
this he slipped through the exempts quite unsuspected, and bade 
adieu to the Lazarists and his honest father, who came out speedily 
to seek him, and was not a little annoyed to find only his coat and 
wig.

With that coat and wig, Cartouche left home, father, friends, 
conscience, remorse, society, behind him.  He discovered (like a 
great number of other philosophers and poets, when they have 
committed rascally actions) that the world was all going wrong, and 
he quarrelled with it outright.  One of the first stories told of 
the illustrious Cartouche, when he became professionally and openly 
a robber, redounds highly to his credit, and shows that he knew how 
to take advantage of the occasion, and how much he had improved in 
the course of a very few years' experience.  His courage and 
ingenuity were vastly admired by his friends; so much so, that, one 
day, the captain of the band thought fit to compliment him, and 
vowed that when he (the captain) died, Cartouche should infallibly 
be called to the command-in-chief.  This conversation, so 
flattering to Cartouche, was carried on between the two gentlemen, 
as they were walking, one night, on the quays by the side of the 
Seine.  Cartouche, when the captain made the last remark, 
blushingly protested against it, and pleaded his extreme youth as 
a reason why his comrades could never put entire trust in him.  
"Psha, man!" said the captain, "thy youth is in thy favor; thou 
wilt live only the longer to lead thy troops to victory.  As for 
strength, bravery, and cunning, wert thou as old as Methuselah, 
thou couldst not be better provided than thou art now, at 
eighteen."  What was the reply of Monsieur Cartouche?  He answered, 
not by words, but by actions.  Drawing his knife from his girdle, 
he instantly dug it into the captain's left side, as near his heart 
as possible; and then, seizing that imprudent commander, 
precipitated him violently into the waters of the Seine, to keep 
company with the gudgeons and river-gods.  When he returned to 
the band, and recounted how the captain had basely attempted to 
assassinate him, and how he, on the contrary, had, by exertion of 
superior skill, overcome the captain, not one of the society 
believed a word of his history; but they elected him captain 
forthwith.  I think his Excellency Don Rafael Maroto, the 
pacificator of Spain, is an amiable character, for whom history 
has not been written in vain.

Being arrived at this exalted position, there is no end of the 
feats which Cartouche performed; and his band reached to such a 
pitch of glory, that if there had been a hundred thousand, instead 
of a hundred of them, who knows but that a new and popular dynasty 
might not have been founded, and "Louis Dominic, premier Empereur 
des Franais," might have performed innumerable glorious actions, 
and fixed himself in the hearts of his people, just as other 
monarchs have done, a hundred years after Cartouche's death.

A story similar to the above, and equally moral, is that of 
Cartouche, who, in company with two other gentlemen, robbed the 
coche, or packet-boat, from Melun, where they took a good quantity 
of booty,--making the passengers lie down on the decks, and rifling 
them at leisure.  "This money will be but very little among three," 
whispered Cartouche to his neighbor, as the three conquerors were 
making merry over their gains; "if you were but to pull the trigger 
of your pistol in the neighborhood of your comrade's ear, perhaps 
it might go off, and then there would be but two of us to share."  
Strangely enough, as Cartouche said, the pistol DID go off, and No. 
3 perished.  "Give him another ball," said Cartouche; and another 
was fired into him.  But no sooner had Cartouche's comrade 
discharged both his pistols, than Cartouche himself, seized with a 
furious indignation, drew his: "Learn, monster," cried he, "not to 
be so greedy of gold, and perish, the victim of thy disloyalty and 
avarice!"  So Cartouche slew the second robber; and there is no man 
in Europe who can say that the latter did not merit well his 
punishment.

I could fill volumes, and not mere sheets of paper, with tales of 
the triumphs of Cartouche and his band; how he robbed the Countess 
of O----, going to Dijon, in her coach, and how the Countess fell 
in love with him, and was faithful to him ever after; how, when the 
lieutenant of police offered a reward of a hundred pistoles to any 
man who would bring Cartouche before him, a noble Marquess, in a 
coach and six, drove up to the hotel of the police; and the noble 
Marquess, desiring to see Monsieur de la Reynie, on matters of the 
highest moment, alone, the latter introduced him into his private 
cabinet; and how, when there, the Marquess drew from his pocket a 
long, curiously shaped dagger: "Look at this, Monsieur de la 
Reynie," said he; "this dagger is poisoned!"

"Is it possible?" said M. de la Reynie.

"A prick of it would do for any man," said the Marquess.

"You don't say so!" said M. de la Reynie.

"I do, though; and, what is more," says the Marquess, in a terrible 
voice, "if you do not instantly lay yourself flat on the ground, 
with your face towards it, and your hands crossed over your back, 
or if you make the slightest noise or cry, I will stick this 
poisoned dagger between your ribs, as sure as my name is Cartouche?"

At the sound of this dreadful name, M. de la Reynie sunk 
incontinently down on his stomach, and submitted to be carefully 
gagged and corded; after which Monsieur Cartouche laid his hands 
upon all the money which was kept in the lieutenant's cabinet.  
Alas! and alas! many a stout bailiff, and many an honest fellow of 
a spy, went, for that day, without his pay and his victuals.

There is a story that Cartouche once took the diligence to Lille, 
and found in it a certain Abb Potter, who was full of indignation 
against this monster of a Cartouche, and said that when he went 
back to Paris, which he proposed to do in about a fortnight, he 
should give the lieutenant of police some information, which would 
infallibly lead to the scoundrel's capture.  But poor Potter was 
disappointed in his designs; for, before he could fulfil them, he 
was made the victim of Cartouche's cruelty.

A letter came to the lieutenant of police, to state that Cartouche 
had travelled to Lille, in company with the Abb de Potter, of that 
town; that, on the reverend gentleman's return towards Paris, 
Cartouche had waylaid him, murdered him, taken his papers, and 
would come to Paris himself, bearing the name and clothes of the 
unfortunate Abb, 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 Abb's guise.  He was 
seized, bound, flung into prison, brought out to be examined, and, 
on examination, found to be no other than the Abb 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 famous Cartouche.  
It happened that he met, in the coach, a young and lovely lady, 
clad in widow's weeds, and bound to Paris, with a couple of 
servants.  The poor thing was the widow of a rich old gentleman 
of Marseilles, and was going to the capital to arrange with her 
lawyers, and to settle her husband's will.  The Count de Grinche 
(for so her fellow-passenger was called) was quite as candid as the 
pretty widow had been, and stated that he was a captain in the 
regiment of Nivernois; that he was going to Paris to buy a 
colonelcy, which his relatives, the Duke de Bouillon, the Prince 
de Montmorency, the Commandeur de la Trmoille, with all their 
interest at court, could not fail to procure for him.  To be short, 
in the course of the four days' journey, the Count Louis Dominic de 
Grinche played his cards so well, that the poor little widow half 
forgot her late husband; and her eyes glistened with tears as the 
Count kissed her hand at parting--at parting, he hoped, only for a 
few hours.

Day and night the insinuating Count followed her; and when, at the 
end of a fortnight, and in the midst of a tte--tte, he plunged, 
one morning, suddenly on his knees, and said, Leonora, do you love 
me?" the poor thing heaved the gentlest, tenderest, sweetest sigh 
in the world; and sinking her blushing head on his shoulder, 
whispered, "Oh, Dominic, je t'aime!  Ah!" said she, "how noble is 
it of my Dominic to take me with the little I have, and he so rich 
a nobleman!"  The fact is, the old Baron's titles and estates had 
passed away to his nephews; his dowager was only left with three 
hundred thousand livres, in rentes sur l'tat--a handsome sum, but 
nothing to compare to the rent-roll of Count Dominic, Count de la 
Grinche, Seigneur de la Haute Pigre, Baron de la Bigorne; he had 
estates and wealth which might authorize him to aspire to the hand 
of a duchess, at least.

The unfortunate widow never for a moment suspected the cruel trick 
that was about to be played on her; and, at the request of her 
affianced husband, sold out her money, and realized it in gold, to 
be made over to him on the day when the contract was to be signed.  
The day arrived; and, according to the custom in France, the 
relations of both parties attended.  The widow's relatives, though 
respectable, were not of the first nobility, being chiefly persons 
of the finance or the robe: there was the president of the court of 
Arras, and his lady; a farmer-general; a judge of a court of Paris; 
and other such grave and respectable people.  As for Monsieur le 
Comte de la Grinche, he was not bound for names; and, having the 
whole peerage to choose from, brought a host of Montmorencies, 
Crquis, De la Tours, and Guises at his back.  His homme d'affaires 
brought his papers in a sack, and displayed the plans of his 
estates, and the titles of his glorious ancestry.  The widow's 
lawyers had her money in sacks; and between the gold on the one 
side, and the parchments on the other, lay the contract which was 
to make the widow's three hundred thousand francs the property of 
the Count de Grinche.  The Count de la Grinche was just about to 
sign; when the Marshal de Villars, stepping up to him, said, 
"Captain, do you know who the president of the court of Arras, 
yonder, is?  It is old Manasseh, the fence, of Brussels.  I pawned 
a gold watch to him, which I stole from Cadogan, when I was with 
Malbrook's army in Flanders."

Here the Duc de la Roche Guyon came forward, very much alarmed.  
"Run me through the body!" said his Grace, "but the comptroller-
general's lady, there, is no other than that old hag of a Margoton 
who keeps the ----"  Here the Duc de la Roche Guyon's voice fell.

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 received a piece of damask, which he 
was to wear in a state procession, pawned the damask, and appeared, 
at the show, dressed out in some very fine sheets of paper, which 
he had painted so as exactly to resemble silk.  Nay, his coat 
looked so much richer than the doublets of all the rest, that the 
Emperor Charles, in whose honor the procession was given, remarked 
the painter, and so his deceit was found out.

I have often thought that, in respect of sham and real histories, a 
similar fact may be noticed; the sham story appearing a great deal 
more agreeable, life-like, and natural than the true one: and all 
who, from laziness as well as principle, are inclined to follow the 
easy and comfortable study of novels, may console themselves with 
the notion that they are studying matters quite as important as 
history, and that their favorite duodecimos are as instructive as 
the biggest quartos in the world.

If then, ladies, the big-wigs begin to sneer at the course of our 
studies, calling our darling romances foolish, trivial, noxious to 
the mind, enervators of intellect, fathers of idleness, and what 
not, let us at once take a high ground, and say,--Go you to your 
own employments, and to such dull studies as you fancy; go and bob 
for triangles, from the Pons Asinorum; go enjoy your dull black 
draughts of metaphysics; go fumble over history books, and dissert 
upon Herodotus and Livy; OUR histories are, perhaps, as true as 
yours; our drink is the brisk sparkling champagne drink, from the 
presses of Colburn, Bentley and Co.; our walks are over such 
sunshiny pleasure-grounds as Scott and Shakspeare have laid out for 
us; and if our dwellings are castles in the air, we find them 
excessively splendid and commodious;--be not you envious because 
you have no wings to fly thither.  Let the big-wigs despise us; 
such contempt of their neighbors is the custom of all barbarous 
tribes;--witness, the learned Chinese: Tippoo Sultaun declared that 
there were not in all Europe ten thousand men: the Sklavonic 
hordes, it is said, so entitled themselves from a word in their 
jargon, which signifies "to speak;" the ruffians imagining that 
they had a monopoly of this agreeable faculty, and that all other 
nations were dumb.

Not so: others may be DEAF; but the novelist has a loud, eloquent, 
instructive language, though his enemies may despise or deny it 
ever so much.  What is more, one could, perhaps, meet the stoutest 
historian on his own ground, and argue with him; showing that sham 
histories were much truer than real histories; which are, in fact, 
mere contemptible catalogues of names and places, that can have no 
moral effect upon the reader.

As thus:--


  Julius Caesar beat Pompey, at Pharsalia.
  The Duke of Marlborough beat Marshal Tallard at Blenheim.
  The Constable of Bourbon beat Francis the First, at Pavia.


And what have we here?--so many names, simply.  Suppose Pharsalia 
had been, at that mysterious period when names were given, called 
Pavia; and that Julius Caesar's family name had been John 
Churchill;--the fact would have stood in history, thus:--


  "Pompey ran away from the Duke of Marlborough at Pavia."


And why not?--we should have been just as wise.  Or it might be 
stated that--


  "The tenth legion charged the French infantry at Blenheim; and 
   Caesar, writing home to his mamma, said, 'Madame, tout est perdu 
   fors l'honneur.'" 


What a contemptible science this is, then, about which quartos are 
written, and sixty-volumed Biographies Universelles, and Lardner's 
Cabinet Cyclopaedias, and the like! the facts are nothing in it, the 
names everything and a gentleman might as well improve his mind by 
learning Walker's "Gazetteer," or getting by heart a fifty-years-
old edition of the "Court Guide."

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 mutilated, according to the old saying, so that their 
owners should not know them) and, for compositions, we intend to 
favor the public with some studies of French modern works, that 
have not as yet, we believe, attracted the notice of the English 
public.

Of such works there appear many hundreds yearly, as may be seen by 
the French catalogues; but the writer has not so much to do with 
works political, philosophical, historical, metaphysical, 
scientifical, theological, as with those for which he has been 
putting forward a plea--novels, namely; on which he has expended a 
great deal of time and study.  And passing from novels in general 
to French novels, let us confess, with much humiliation, that we 
borrow from these stories a great deal more knowledge of French 
society than from our own personal observation we ever can hope to 
gain: for, let a gentleman who has dwelt two, four, or ten years in 
Paris (and has not gone thither for the purpose of making a book, 
when three weeks are sufficient--let an English gentleman say, at 
the end of any given period, how much he knows of French society, 
how many French houses he has entered, and how many French friends 
he has made?--He has enjoyed, at the end of the year, say--


  At the English Ambassador's, so many soires.
  At houses to which he has brought letters, so many tea-parties.
  At Cafs, so many dinners.
  At French private houses, say three dinners, and very lucky too.


He has, we say, seen an immense number of wax candles, cups of tea, 
glasses of orgeat, and French people, in best clothes, enjoying the 
same; but intimacy there is none; we see but the outsides of the 
people.  Year by year we live in France, and grow gray, and see no 
more.  We play cart with Monsieur de Trfle every night; but what 
know we of the heart of the man--of the inward ways, thoughts, and 
customs of Trfle?  If we have good legs, and love the amusement, 
we dance with Countess Flicflac, Tuesday's and Thursdays, ever 
since the Peace; and how far are we advanced in acquaintance with 
her since we first twirled her round a room?  We know her velvet 
gown, and her diamonds (about three-fourths of them are sham, by 
the way); we know her smiles, and her simpers, and her rouge--but 
no more: she may turn into a kitchen wench at twelve on Thursday 
night, for aught we know; her voiture, a pumpkin; and her gens, so 
many rats: but the real, rougeless, intime Flicflac, we know not.  
This privilege is granted to no Englishman: we may understand the 
French language as well as Monsieur de Levizac, but never can 
penetrate into Flicflac's confidence: our ways are not her ways; 
our manners of thinking, not hers: when we say a good thing, in the 
course of the night, we are wondrous lucky and pleased; Flicflac 
will trill you off fifty in ten minutes, and wonder at the btise 
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 cart with 
Trfle 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 
Trfle, "is that man mad?  He won't play at cards on a Sunday; he 
goes to church on a Sunday: he has fourteen children!"

Was ever Frenchman known to do likewise?  Pass we on to our 
argument, which is, that with our English notions and moral and 
physical constitution, it is quite impossible that we should become 
intimate with our brisk neighbors; and when such authors as Lady 
Morgan and Mrs. Trollope, having frequented a certain number of 
tea-parties in the French capital, begin to prattle about French 
manners and men,--with all respect for the talents of those ladies, 
we do believe their information not to be worth a sixpence; they 
speak to us not of men but of tea-parties.  Tea-parties are the 
same all the world over; with the exception that, with the French, 
there are more lights and prettier dresses; and with us, a mighty 
deal more tea in the pot.

There is, however, a cheap and delightful way of travelling, that a 
man may perform in his easy-chair, without expense of passports or 
post-boys.  On the wings of a novel, from the next circulating 
library, he sends his imagination a-gadding, and gains acquaintance 
with people and manners whom he could not hope otherwise to know.  
Twopence a volume bears us whithersoever we will;--back to Ivanhoe 
and Coeur de Lion, or to Waverley and the Young Pretender, along 
with Walter Scott; up the heights of fashion with the charming 
enchanters of the silver-fork school; or, better still, to the snug 
inn-parlor, or the jovial tap-room, with Mr. Pickwick and his 
faithful Sancho Weller.  I am sure that a man who, a hundred years 
hence should sit down to write the history of our time, would do 
wrong to put that great contemporary history of "Pickwick" aside as 
a frivolous work.  It contains true character under false names; 
and, like "Roderick Random," an inferior work, and "Tom Jones" (one 
that is immeasurably superior), gives us a better idea of the state 
and ways of the people than one could gather from any more pompous 
or authentic histories.

We have, therefore, introduced into these volumes one or two short 
reviews of French fiction writers, of particular classes, whose 
Paris sketches may give the reader some notion of manners in that 
capital.  If not original, at least the drawings are accurate; for, 
as a Frenchman might have lived a thousand years in England, and 
never could have written "Pickwick," an Englishman cannot hope to 
give a good description of the inward thoughts and ways of his 
neighbors.

To a person inclined to study these, in that light and amusing 
fashion in which the novelist treats them, let us recommend the 
works of a new writer, Monsieur de Bernard, who has painted actual 
manners, without those monstrous and terrible exaggerations in 
which late French writers have indulged; and who, if he 
occasionally wounds the English sense of propriety (as what French 
man or woman alive will not?) does so more by slighting than by 
outraging it, as, with their labored descriptions of all sorts of 
imaginable wickedness, some of his brethren of the press have done.  
M. de Bernard's characters are men and women of genteel society--
rascals enough, but living in no state of convulsive crimes; and we 
follow him in his lively, malicious account of their manners, 
without risk of lighting upon any such horrors as Balzac or Dumas 
has provided for us.

Let us give an instance:--it is from the amusing novel called "Les 
Ailes d'Icare," and contains what is to us quite a new picture of a 
French fashionable rogue.  The fashions will change in a few years, 
and the rogue, of course, with them.  Let us catch this delightful 
fellow ere he flies.  It is impossible to sketch the character in a 
more sparkling, gentlemanlike way than M. de Bernard's; but such 
light things are very difficult of translation, and the sparkle 
sadly evaporates during the process of DECANTING.  


A FRENCH FASHIONABLE LETTER.

"MY DEAR VICTOR--It is six in the morning: I have just come from 
the English Ambassador's ball, and as my plans, for the day do not 
admit of my sleeping, I write you a line; for, at this moment, 
saturated as I am with the enchantments of a fairy night, all other 
pleasures would be too wearisome to keep me awake, except that of 
conversing with you.  Indeed, were I not to write to you now, when 
should I find the possibility of doing so?  Time flies here with 
such a frightful rapidity, my pleasures and my affairs whirl 
onwards together in such a torrentuous galopade, that I am 
compelled to seize occasion by the forelock; for each moment has 
its imperious employ.  Do not then accuse me of negligence: if my 
correspondence has not always that regularity which I would fain 
give it, attribute the fault solely to the whirlwind in which I 
live, and which carries me hither and thither at its will.

"However, you are not the only person with whom I am behindhand: I 
assure you, on the contrary, that you are one of a very numerous 
and fashionable company, to whom, towards the discharge of my 
debts, I propose to consecrate four hours to-day.  I give you the 
preference to all the world, even to the lovely Duchess of San 
Severino, a delicious Italian, whom, for my special happiness, I 
met last summer at the Waters of Aix.  I have also a most important 
negotiation to conclude with one of our Princes of Finance: but 
n'importe, I commence with thee: friendship before love or money--
friendship before everything.  My despatches concluded, I am 
engaged to ride with the Marquis de Grigneure, the Comte de 
Castijars, and Lord Cobham, in order that we may recover, for a 
breakfast at the Rocher de Cancale that Grigneure has lost, the 
appetite which we all of us so cruelly abused last night at the 
Ambassador's gala.  On my honor, my dear fellow, everybody was of a 
caprice prestigieux and a comfortable mirobolant.  Fancy, for a 
banquet-hall, a royal orangery hung with white damask; the boxes of 
the shrubs transformed into so many sideboards; lights gleaming 
through the foliage; and, for guests, the loveliest women and most 
brilliant cavaliers of Paris.  Orleans and Nemours were there, 
dancing and eating like simple mortals.  In a word, Albion did the 
thing very handsomely, and I accord it my esteem.

"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 Frdric has broken a cup, true Japan, upon my 
honor--the rogue does nothing else.  Yesterday, for instance, did 
he not thump me prodigiously, by letting fall a goblet, after 
Cellini, of which the carving alone cost me three hundred francs?  
I must positively put the wretch out of doors, to ensure the safety
of my furniture; and in consequence of this, Eneas, an audacious
young negro, in whom wisdom hath not waited for years--Eneas, my
groom, I say, will probably be elevated to the post of valet-de-
chambre. But where was I?  I think I was speaking to you of an
oyster breakfast, to which, on our return from the Park (du Bois), a
company of pleasant rakes are invited.  After quitting Borel's, we
propose to adjourn to the Barrire du Combat, where Lord Cobham
proposes to try some bull-dogs, which he has brought over from
England--one of these, O'Connell (Lord Cobham is a Tory,) has a face
in which I place much confidence; I have a bet of ten louis with
Castijars on the strength of it.  After the fight, we shall make our
accustomed appearance at the 'Cafe de Paris,' (the only place, by
the way, where a man who respects himself may be seen,)-- and then
away with frocks and spurs, and on with our dress-coats for the rest
of the evening.  In the first place, I shall go doze for a couple of
hours at the Opera, where my presence is indispensable; for Coralie,
a charming creature, passes this evening from the rank of the RATS
to that of the TIGERS, in a pas-de-trois, and our box patronizes
her.  After the Opera, I must show my face to two or three salons in
the Faubourg St. Honor; and having thus performed my duties to the
world of fashion, I return to the exercise of my rights as a member
of the Carnival.  At two o'clock all the world meets at the Thtre
Ventadour: lions and tigers--the whole of our menagerie will be
present.  Evo! off we go! roaring and bounding Bacchanal and
Saturnal; 'tis agreed that we shall be everything that is low.  To
conclude, we sup with Castijars, the most 'furiously dishevelled'
orgy that ever was known."


The rest of the letter is on matters of finance, 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 "Caf de Paris," and delirious Carnival balls: the 
animal goes through all such frantic pleasures at the season that 
precedes Lent.  He has a wondrous respect for English "gentlemen-
sportsmen;" he imitates their clubs--their love of horse-flesh: he 
calls his palefrenier a groom, wears blue birds's-eye neck-cloths, 
sports his pink out hunting, rides steeple-chases, and has his 
Jockey Club.  The "tigers and lions" alluded to in the report have 
been borrowed from our own country, and a great compliment is it to 
Monsieur de Bernard, the writer of the above amusing sketch, that 
he has such a knowledge of English names and things, as to give a 
Tory lord the decent title of Lord Cobham, and to call his dog 
O'Connell.  Paul de Kock calls an English nobleman, in one of his 
last novels, Lord Boulingrog, and appears vastly delighted at the 
verisimilitude of the title.

For the "rugissements et bondissements, bacchanale et saturnale, 
galop infernal, ronde du sabbat tout le tremblement," these words 
give a most clear, untranslatable idea of the Carnival ball.  A 
sight more hideous can hardly strike a man's eye.  I was present at 
one where the four thousand guests whirled screaming, reeling, 
roaring, out of the ball-room in the Rue St. Honor, and tore down 
to the column in the Place Vendme, round which they went shrieking 
their own music, twenty miles an hour, and so tore madly back 
again.  Let a man go alone to such a place of amusement, and the 
sight for him is perfectly terrible: the horrid frantic gayety of 
the place puts him in mind more of the merriment of demons than of 
men: bang, bang, drums, trumpets, chairs, pistol-shots, pour out of 
the orchestra, which seems as mad as the dancers; whiz, a whirlwind 
of paint and patches, all the costumes under the sun, all the ranks 
in the empire, all the he and she scoundrels of the capital, 
writhed and twisted together, rush by you; if a man falls, woe be 
to him: two thousand screaming menads go trampling over his 
carcass: they have neither power nor will to stop.

A set of Malays drunk with bhang and running amuck, a company of 
howling dervishes, may possibly, in our own day, go through similar 
frantic vagaries; but I doubt if any civilized European people but 
the French would permit and enjoy such scenes.  Yet our neighbors 
see little shame in them; and it is very true that men of all 
classes, high and low, here congregate and give themselves up to 
the disgusting worship of the genius of the place.--From the dandy 
of the Boulevard and the "Caf 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 
Panthon.  No doubt, madam, you have occasionally met little 
children dedicated to the Virgin, and, to this end, clothed in 
white raiment from head to foot: my friend, Dambergeac, had 
received a different consecration.  His father, a great patriot of 
the Revolution, had determined that his son should bear into the 
world a sign of indelible republicanism; so, to the great 
displeasure of his godmother and the parish curate, Dambergeac was 
christened by the pagan name of Harmodius.  It was a kind of moral 
tricolor-cockade, which the child was to bear through the 
vicissitudes of all the revolutions to come.  Under such 
influences, my friend's character began to develop itself, and, 
fired by the example of his father, and by the warm atmosphere of 
his native place, Marseilles, he grew up to have an independent 
spirit, and a grand liberality of politics, which were at their 
height when first I made his acquaintance.

"He was then a young man of eighteen, with a tall, slim figure, a 
broad chest, and a flaming black eye, out of all which personal 
charms he knew how to draw the most advantage; and though his 
costume was such as Staub might probably have criticised, he had, 
nevertheless, a style peculiar to himself--to himself and the 
students, among whom he was the leader of the fashion.  A tight 
black coat, buttoned up to the chin, across the chest, set off that 
part of his person; a low-crowned hat, with a voluminous rim, cast 
solemn shadows over a countenance bronzed by a southern sun: he 
wore, at one time, enormous flowing black locks, which he sacrificed
pitilessly, however, and adopted a Brutus, as being more 
revolutionary: finally, he carried an enormous club, that was his
code and digest: in like manner, De Retz used to carry a stiletto in
his pocket by way of a breviary.

"Although of different ways of thinking in politics, certain 
sympathies of character and conduct united Dambergeac and myself, 
and we speedily became close friends.  I don't think, in the whole 
course of his three years' residence, Dambergeac ever went through 
a single course of lectures.  For the examinations, he trusted to 
luck, and to his own facility, which was prodigious: as for honors, 
he never aimed at them, but was content to do exactly as little as 
was necessary for him to gain his degree.  In like manner he 
sedulously avoided those horrible circulating libraries, where 
daily are seen to congregate the 'reading men' of our schools.  
But, in revenge, there was not a milliner's shop, or a lingre's, 
in all our quartier Latin, which he did not industriously frequent, 
and of which he was not the oracle.  Nay, it was said that his 
victories were not confined to the left bank of the Seine; reports 
did occasionally come to us of fabulous adventures by him 
accomplished in the far regions of the Rue de la Paix and the 
Boulevard Poissonnire.  Such recitals were, for us less favored 
mortals, like tales of Bacchus conquering in the East; they excited 
our ambition, but not our jealousy; for the superiority of 
Harmodius was acknowledged by us all, and we never thought of a 
rivalry with him.  No man ever cantered a hack through the Champs 
Elyses with such elegant assurance; no man ever made such a 
massacre of dolls at the shooting-gallery; or won you a rubber at 
billiards with more easy grace; or thundered out a couplet out of 
Branger with such a roaring melodious bass.  He was the monarch of 
the Prado in winter: in summer of the Chaumire and Mont Parnasse.  
Not a frequenter of those fashionable places of entertainment 
showed a more amiable laisser-aller in the dance--that peculiar 
dance at which gendarmes think proper to blush, and which squeamish 
society has banished from her salons.  In a word, Harmodius was the 
prince of mauvais sujets, a youth with all the accomplishments of 
Gttingen and Jena, and all the eminent graces of his own country.

"Besides dissipation and gallantry, our friend had one other vast 
and absorbing occupation--politics, namely; in which he was as 
turbulent and enthusiastic as in pleasure.  La 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  la Sylla; 
need I mention his pipe, his meerschaum pipe, of which General 
Foy's head was the bowl; his handkerchief with the Charte printed 
thereon; and his celebrated tricolor braces, which kept the 
rallying sign of his country ever close to his heart?  Besides 
these outward and visible signs of sedition, he had inward and 
secret plans of revolution: he belonged to clubs, frequented 
associations, read the Constitutionnel (Liberals, in those days, 
swore by the Constitutionnel), harangued peers and deputies who had 
deserved well of their country; and if death happened to fall on 
such, and the Constitutionnel declared their merit, Harmodius was 
the very first to attend their obsequies, or to set his shoulder to 
their coffins.

"Such were his tastes and passions: his antipathies were not less 
lively.  He detested three things: a Jesuit, a gendarme, and a 
claqueur at a theatre.  At this period, missionaries were rife 
about Paris, and endeavored to re-illume the zeal of the faithful 
by public preachings in the churches.  'Infmes jesuites!' would 
Harmodius exclaim, who, in the excess of his toleration, tolerated 
nothing; and, at the head of a band of philosophers like himself, 
would attend with scrupulous exactitude the meetings of the 
reverend gentlemen.  But, instead of a contrite heart, Harmodius 
only brought the abomination of desolation into their sanctuary.  A 
perpetual fire of fulminating balls would bang from under the feet 
of the faithful; odors of impure assafoetida would mingle with the 
fumes of the incense; and wicked drinking choruses would rise up 
along with the holy canticles, in hideous dissonance, reminding one 
of the old orgies under the reign of the Abbot of Unreason.

"His hatred of the gendarmes was equally ferocious: and as for the 
claqueurs, woe be to them when Harmodius was in the pit!  They knew 
him, and trembled before him, like the earth before Alexander; and 
his famous war-cry, 'La Carte au chapeau!' was so much dreaded, 
that the 'entrepreneurs de succs dramatiques' demanded twice as 
much to do the Odeon Theatre (which we students and Harmodius 
frequented), as to applaud at any other place of amusement: and, 
indeed, their double pay was hardly gained; Harmodius taking care 
that they should earn the most of it under the benches."


This passage, with which we have taken some liberties, will give 
the reader a more lively idea of the reckless, jovial, turbulent 
Paris student, than any with which a foreigner could furnish him: 
the grisette is his heroine; and dear old Branger, the cynic-
epicurean, has celebrated him and her in the most delightful verses 
in the world.  Of these we may have occasion to say a word or two 
anon.  Meanwhile let us follow Monsieur de Bernard in his amusing 
descriptions of his countrymen somewhat farther; and, having seen 
how Dambergeac was a ferocious republican, being a bachelor, let us 
see how age, sense, and a little government pay--the great agent of 
conversions in France--nay, in England--has reduced him to be a 
pompous, quiet, loyal supporter of the juste milieu: his former 
portrait was that of the student, the present will stand for an 
admirable lively likeness of


THE SOUS-PRFET.


"Saying that I would wait for Dambergeac in his own study, I was 
introduced into that apartment, and saw around me the usual 
furniture of a man in his station.  There was, in the middle of the 
room, a large bureau, surrounded by orthodox arm-chairs; and there 
were many shelves with boxes duly ticketed; there were a number of 
maps, and among them a great one of the department over which 
Dambergeac ruled; and facing the windows, on a wooden pedestal, 
stood a plaster-cast of the 'Roi des Franais.'  Recollecting my 
friend's former republicanism, I smiled at this piece of furniture; 
but before I had time to carry my observations any farther, a heavy 
rolling sound of carriage-wheels, that caused the windows to rattle 
and seemed to shake the whole edifice of the sub-prefecture, called 
my attention to the court without.  Its iron gates were flung open, 
and in rolled, with a great deal of din, a chariot escorted by a 
brace of gendarmes, sword in hand.  A tall gentleman, with a 
cocked-hat and feathers, wearing a blue and silver uniform coat, 
descended from the vehicle; and having, with much grave 
condescension, saluted his escort, mounted the stair.  A moment 
afterwards the door of the study was opened, and I embraced my 
friend.

"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 Harmodius, after a 
moment.

"'In revenge I find you fat and rosy: if I am a walking satire on 
celibacy,--you, at least, are a living panegyric on marriage.'

"In fact a great change, and such an one as many people would call 
a change for the better, had taken place in my friend: he had grown 
fat, and announced a decided disposition to become what French 
people call a bel homme: that is, a very fat one.  His complexion, 
bronzed before, was now clear white and red: there were no more 
political allusions in his hair, which was, on the contrary, neatly 
frizzed, and brushed over the forehead, shell-shape.  This head-
dress, joined to a thin pair of whiskers, cut crescent-wise from 
the ear to the nose, gave my friend a regular bourgeois 
physiognomy, wax-doll-like: he looked a great deal too well; and, 
added to this, the solemnity of his prefectural costume, gave his 
whole appearance a pompous well-fed look that by no means pleased.

"'I surprise you,' said I, 'in the midst of your splendor: do you 
know that this costume and yonder attendants have a look 
excessively awful and splendid?  You entered your palace just now 
with the air of a pasha.'

"'You see me in uniform in honor of Monseigneur the Bishop, who has 
just made his diocesan visit, and whom I have just conducted to the 
limit of the arrondissement.'

"'What!' said I, 'you have gendarmes for guards, and dance 
attendance on bishops?  There are no more janissaries and Jesuits, 
I suppose?'  The sub-prefect smiled.

"'I assure you that 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?'

"'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 odor 
of these piles of papers.'

"'Impossible, my dear; I don't smoke; my wife cannot bear a cigar.'

"His wife! thought I; always his wife: and I remember Juliette, who 
really grew sick at the smell of a pipe, and Harmodius would smoke, 
until, at last, the poor thing grew to smoke herself, like a 
trooper.  To compensate, however, as much as possible for the loss 
of my cigar, Dambergeac drew from his pocket an enormous gold 
snuff-box, on which figured the self-same head that I had before 
remarked in plaster, but this time surrounded with a ring of pretty 
princes and princesses, all nicely painted in miniature.  As for 
the statue of Louis Philippe, that, in the cabinet of an official, 
is a thing of course; but the snuff-box seemed to indicate a degree 
of sentimental and personal devotion, such as the old Royalists 
were only supposed to be guilty of.

"'What! you are turned decided juste milieu?' said I.

"'I am a sous-prfet,' answered Harmodius.

"I had nothing to say, but held my tongue, wondering, not at the 
change which had taken place in the habits, manners, and opinions 
of my friend, but at my own folly, which led me to fancy that I 
should find the student of '26 in the functionary of '34.  At this 
moment a domestic appeared.

"'Madame is waiting for Monsieur,' said he: 'the last bell has 
gone, and mass beginning.'

"'Mass!' said I, bounding up from my chair.  'You at mass like a 
decent serious Christian, without crackers in your pocket, and 
bored keys to whistle through?'--The sous-prfet rose, his 
countenance was calm, and an indulgent smile played upon his lips, 
as he said, 'My arrondissement is very devout; and not to interfere 
with the belief of the population is the maxim of every wise 
politician: I have precise orders from Government on the point, 
too, and go to eleven o'clock mass every Sunday."'


There is a great deal of curious matter for speculation in the 
accounts here so wittily given by M. de Bernard: but, perhaps, it 
is still more curious to think of what he has NOT written, and to 
judge of his characters, not so much by the words in which he 
describes them, as by the unconscious testimony that the words all 
together convey.  In the first place, our author describes a 
swindler imitating the manners of a dandy; and many swindlers and 
dandies be there, doubtless, in London as well as in Paris.  But 
there is about the present swindler, and about Monsieur Dambergeac 
the student, and Monsieur Dambergeac the sous-prfet, and his 
friend, a rich store of calm internal debauch, which does not, let 
us hope and pray, exist in England.  Hearken to M. de Gustan, and 
his smirking whispers, about the Duchess of San Severino, who pour 
son bonheur particulier, &c. &c.  Listen to Monsieur Dambergeac's 
friend's remonstrances concerning pauvre Juliette who grew sick at 
the smell of a pipe; to his nave admiration at the fact that the 
sous-prfet goes to church: and we may set down, as axioms, that 
religion is so uncommon among the Parisians, as to awaken the 
surprise of all candid observers; that gallantry is so common as to 
create no remark, and to be considered as a matter of course.  With 
us, at least, the converse of the proposition prevails: it is the 
man professing irreligion who would be remarked and reprehended in 
England; and, if the second-named vice exists, at any rate, it 
adopts the decency of secrecy and is not made patent and notorious 
to all the world.  A French gentleman thinks no more of proclaiming 
that he has a mistress than that he has a tailor; and one lives the 
time of Boccaccio over again, in the thousand and one French novels 
which depict society in that country.

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 Souli, or Dumas.  We have then--"Gerfaut," a novel: 
a lovely creature is married to a brave, haughty, Alsacian 
nobleman, who allows her to spend her winters at Paris, he 
remaining on his terres, cultivating, carousing, and hunting the 
boar.  The lovely-creature meets the fascinating Gerfaut at Paris; 
instantly the latter makes love to her; a duel takes place: baron 
killed; wife throws herself out of window; Gerfaut plunges into 
dissipation; and so the tale ends.

Next: "La Femme de Quarante Ans," a capital tale, full of exquisite 
fun and sparkling satire: La femme de quarante ans has a husband 
and THREE lovers; all of whom find out their mutual connection one 
starry night; for the lady of forty is of a romantic poetical turn, 
and has given her three admirers A STAR APIECE; saying to one and 
the other, "Alphonse, when yon pale orb rises in heaven, think of 
me;" "Isadore, when that bright planet sparkles in the sky, 
remember your Caroline," &c.

"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 aristocratic name of le 
Comte Horace de Viel-Castel, we find, though with infinitely less 
wit, exactly the same intrigues going on.  A noble Count lives in 
the Faubourg St. Honor, and has a noble Duchess for a mistress: he 
introduces her Grace to the Countess his wife.  The Countess his 
wife, in order to ramener her lord to his conjugal duties, is 
counselled, by a friend, TO PRETEND TO TAKE A LOVER: one is found, 
who, poor fellow! takes the affair in earnest: climax--duel, death, 
despair, and what not?  In the "Faubourg St. Germain," another 
novel by the same writer, which professes to describe the very pink 
of that society which Napoleon dreaded more than Russia, Prussia, 
and Austria, there is an old husband, of course; a sentimental 
young German nobleman, who falls in love with his wife; and the 
moral of the piece lies in the showing up of the conduct of the 
lady, who is reprehended--not for deceiving her husband (poor 
devil!)--but for being a flirt, AND TAKING A SECOND LOVER, to the 
utter despair, confusion, and annihilation of the first.

Why, ye gods, do Frenchmen marry at all?  Had Pre Enfantin (who, 
it is said, has shaved his ambrosial beard, and is now a clerk in a 
banking-house) been allowed to carry out his chaste, just, 
dignified social scheme, what a deal of marital discomfort might 
have been avoided:--would it not be advisable that a great reformer 
and lawgiver of our own, Mr. Robert Owen, should be presented at 
the Tuileries, and there propound his scheme for the regeneration 
of France?

He might, perhaps, be spared, for our country is not yet sufficiently
advanced to give such a philosopher fair play.  In London, as yet,
there are no blessed Bureaux de Mariage, where an old bachelor may
have a charming young maiden--for his money; or a widow of seventy
may buy a gay young fellow of twenty, for a certain number of
bank-billets.  If mariages de convenance take place here (as they
will wherever avarice, and poverty, and desire, and yearning after
riches are to be found), at least, thank God, such unions are not
arranged upon a regular organized SYSTEM: there is a fiction of
attachment with us, and there is a consolation in the deceit ("the
homage," according to the old mot of Rochefoucauld) "which vice pays
to virtue"; for the very falsehood shows that the virtue exists
somewhere.  We once heard a furious old French colonel inveighing
against the chastity of English demoiselles: "Figurez-vous, sir,"
said he (he had been a prisoner in England), "that these women come
down to dinner in low dresses, and walk out alone with the men!"--
and, pray heaven, so may they walk, fancy-free in all sorts of
maiden meditations, and suffer no more molestation than that young
lady of whom Moore sings, and who (there must have been a famous
lord-lieutenant in those days) walked through all Ireland, with rich
and rare gems, beauty, and a gold ring on her stick, without meeting
or thinking of harm.

Now, whether Monsieur de Viel-Castel has given a true picture of 
the Faubourg St. Germain, it is impossible for most foreigners to 
say; but some of his descriptions will not fail to astonish the 
English reader; and all are filled with that remarkable naf 
contempt of the institution called marriage, which we have seen in 
M. de Bernard.  The romantic young nobleman of Westphalia arrives 
at Paris, and is admitted into what a celebrated female author 
calls la crme de la crme de la haute vole 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 prodigious perspicacity 
of judgment, the Duchess of Chalux, arbitress of the opinion to be 
held on all new comers to the Faubourg Saint Germain, and of their 
destiny and reception in it;--one of those women, in a word, who 
make or ruin a man,--said, in speaking of Gerard de Stolberg, whom 
she received at her own house, and met everywhere, 'This young 
German will never gain for himself the title of an exquisite, or a 
man of bonnes fortunes, among us.  In spite of his calm and 
politeness, I think I can see in his character some rude and 
insurmountable difficulties, which time will only increase, and 
which will prevent him for ever from bending to the exigencies of 
either profession; but, unless I very much deceive myself, he will, 
one day, be the hero of a veritable romance.'

"'He, madame?' answered a young man, of fair complexion and fair 
hair, one of the most devoted slaves of the fashion:--'He, Madame 
la Duchesse? why, the man is, at best, but an original, fished out 
of the Rhine: a dull, heavy creature, as much capable of 
understanding a woman's heart as I am of speaking bas-Breton.'

"'Well, Monsieur de Belport, you will speak bas-Breton.  Monsieur 
de Stolberg has not your admirable ease of manner, nor your 
facility of telling pretty nothings, nor your--in a word, that 
particular something which makes you the most recherch 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 Duchess's chair, 'And might I, madam, be permitted to 
ask the reason of this preference?'

"'O mon Dieu, oui,' said the Duchess, always in the same tone; 
'because a lover like you would never think of carrying his 
attachment to the height of passion; and these passions, do you 
know, have frightened me all my life.  One cannot retreat at will 
from the grasp of a passionate lover; one leaves behind one some 
fragment of one's moral SELF, or the best part of one's physical 
life.  A passion, if it does not kill you, adds cruelly to your 
years; in a word, it is the very lowest possible taste.  And now 
you understand why I should prefer you, M. de Belport--you who are 
reputed to be the leader of the fashion.'

"'Perfectly,' murmured the gentleman, piqued more and more.

"'Gerard de Stolberg WILL be passionate.  I don't know what woman 
will please him, or will be pleased by him' (here the Duchess of 
Chalux spoke more gravely); 'but his love will be no play, I repeat 
it to you once more.  All this astonishes you, because you, great 
leaders of the ton that you are, never fancy that a hero of romance 
should be found among your number.  Gerard de Stolberg--but, look, 
here he comes!'

"M. de Belport rose, and quitted the Duchess, without believing in 
her prophecy; but he could not avoid smiling as he passed near the 
HERO OF ROMANCE.

"It was because M. de Stolberg had never, in all his life, been a 
hero of romance, or even an apprentice-hero of romance.


"Gerard de Stolberg was not, as yet, initiated into the thousand 
secrets in the chronicle of the great world: he knew but 
superficially the society in which he lived; and, therefore, he 
devoted his evening to the gathering of all the information which 
he could acquire from the indiscreet conversations of the people 
about him.  His whole man became ear and memory; so much was 
Stolberg convinced of the necessity of becoming a diligent student 
in this new school, where was taught the art of knowing and 
advancing in the great world.  In the recess of a window he learned 
more on this one night than months of investigation would have 
taught him.  The talk of a ball is more indiscreet than the 
confidential chatter of a company of idle women.  No man present at 
a ball, whether listener or speaker, thinks he has a right to 
affect any indulgence for his companions, and the most learned in 
malice will always pass for the most witty.

"'How!' said the Viscount de Mondrag: 'the Duchess of Rivesalte 
arrives alone to-night, without her inevitable Dormilly!'--And the 
Viscount, as he spoke, pointed towards a tall and slender young 
woman, who, gliding rather than walking, met the ladies by whom she 
passed, with a graceful and modest salute, and replied to the looks 
of the men BY BRILLIANT VEILED GLANCES FULL OF COQUETRY AND ATTACK.

"'Parbleu!' said an elegant personage standing near the Viscount de 
Mondrag, 'don't you see Dormilly ranged behind the Duchess, in 
quality of train-bearer, and hiding, under his long locks and his 
great screen of moustaches, the blushing consciousness of his good 
luck?--They call him THE FOURTH CHAPTER of the Duchess's memoirs.  
The little Marquise d'Alberas is ready to die out of spite; but the 
best of the joke is, that she has only taken poor de Vendre for a 
lover in order to vent her spleen on him.  Look at him against the 
chimney yonder; if the Marchioness do not break at once with him by 
quitting him for somebody else, the poor fellow will turn an idiot.'

"'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.


Enough, enough: this kind of fashionable Parisian conversation, 
which is, says our author, "a prodigious labor of improvising," a 
"chef-d'oeuvre," a "strange and singular thing, in which monotony 
is unknown," seems to be, if correctly reported, a "strange and 
singular thing" indeed; but somewhat monotonous at least to an 
English reader, and "prodigious" only, if we may take leave to say 
so, for the wonderful rascality which all the conversationists 
betray.  Miss Neverout and the Colonel, in Swift's famous dialogue, 
are a thousand times more entertaining and moral; and, besides, we 
can laugh AT those worthies as well as with them; whereas the 
"prodigious" French wits are to us quite incomprehensible.  Fancy a 
duchess as old as Lady ---- herself, and who should begin to tell 
us "of what she would do if ever she had a mind to take a lover;" 
and another duchess, with a fourth lover, tripping modestly among 
the ladies, and returning the gaze of the men by veiled glances, 
full of coquetry and attack!--Parbleu, if Monsieur de Viel-Castel 
should find himself among a society of French duchesses, and they 
should tear his eyes out, and send the fashionable Orpheus floating 
by the Seine, his slaughter might almost be considered as 
justifiable COUNTICIDE.




A GAMBLER'S DEATH.


Anybody who was at C---- school some twelve years since, must 
recollect Jack Attwood: he was the most dashing lad in the place, 
with more money in his pocket than belonged to the whole fifth form 
in which we were companions.

When he was about fifteen, Jack suddenly retreated from C----, and 
presently we heard that he had a commission in a cavalry regiment, 
and was to have a great fortune from his father, when that old 
gentleman should die.  Jack himself came to confirm these stories a 
few months after, and paid a visit to his old school chums.  He had 
laid aside his little school-jacket and inky corduroys, and now 
appeared in such a splendid military suit as won the respect of all 
of us.  His hair was dripping with oil, his hands were covered with 
rings, he had a dusky down over his upper lip which looked not 
unlike a moustache, and a multiplicity of frogs and braiding on his 
surtout which would have sufficed to lace a field-marshal.  When 
old Swishtail, the usher, passed in his seedy black coat and 
gaiters, Jack gave him such a look of contempt as set us all a-
laughing: in fact it was his turn to laugh now; for he used to roar 
very stoutly some months before, when Swishtail was in the custom 
of belaboring him with his great cane.

Jack's talk was all about the regiment and the fine fellows in it: 
how he had ridden a steeple-chase with Captain Boldero, and licked 
him at the last hedge; and how he had very nearly fought a duel 
with Sir George Grig, about dancing with Lady Mary Slamken at a 
ball.  "I soon made the baronet know what it was to deal with a man 
of the n--th," said Jack.  "Dammee, sir, when I lugged out my 
barkers, and talked of fighting across the mess-room table, Grig 
turned as pale as a sheet, or as--"

"Or as you used to do, Attwood, when Swishtail hauled you up," 
piped out little Hicks, the foundation-boy.

It was beneath Jack's dignity to thrash anybody, now, but a grown-
up baronet; so he let off little Hicks, and passed over the general 
titter which was raised at his expense.  However, he entertained us 
with his histories about lords and ladies, and so-and-so "of ours," 
until we thought him one of the greatest men in his Majesty's 
service, and until the school-bell rung; when, with a heavy heart, 
we got our books together, and marched in to be whacked by old 
Swishtail.  I promise you he revenged himself on us for Jack's 
contempt of him.  I got that day at least twenty cuts to my share, 
which ought to have belonged to Cornet Attwood, of the n--th 
dragoons.

When we came to think more coolly over our quondam schoolfellow's 
swaggering talk and manner, we were not quite so impressed by his 
merits as at his first appearance among us.  We recollected how he 
used, in former times, to tell us great stories, which were so 
monstrously improbable that the smallest boy in the school would 
scout them; how often we caught him tripping in facts, and how 
unblushingly he admitted his little errors in the score of 
veracity.  He and I, though never great friends, had been close 
companions: I was Jack's form-fellow (we fought with amazing 
emulation for the LAST place in the class); but still I was rather 
hurt at the coolness of my old comrade, who had forgotten all our 
former intimacy, in his steeple-chases with Captain Boldero and his 
duel with Sir George Grig.

Nothing more was heard of Attwood for some years; a tailor one day 
came down to C----, who had made clothes for Jack in his school-
days, and furnished him with regimentals: he produced a long bill 
for one hundred and twenty pounds and upwards, and asked where news 
might be had of his customer.  Jack was in India, with his 
regiment, shooting tigers and jackals, no doubt.  Occasionally, 
from that distant country, some magnificent rumor would reach us of 
his proceedings.  Once I heard that he had been called to a court-
martial for unbecoming conduct; another time, that he kept twenty 
horses, and won the gold plate at the Calcutta races.  Presently, 
however, as the recollections of the fifth form wore away, Jack's 
image disappeared likewise, and I ceased to ask or think about my 
college chum.

A year since, as I was smoking my cigar in the "Estaminet du Grand 
Balcon," an excellent smoking-shop, where the tobacco is 
unexceptionable, and the Hollands of singular merit, a dark-
looking, thick-set man, in a greasy well-cut coat, with a shabby 
hat, cocked on one side of his dirty face, took the place opposite 
me, at the little marble table, and called for brandy.  I did not 
much admire the impudence or the appearance of my friend, nor the 
fixed stare with which he chose to examine me.  At last, he thrust 
a great greasy hand across the table, and said, "Titmarsh, do you 
forget your old friend Attwood?"

I confess my recognition of him was not so joyful as on the day ten 
years earlier, when he had come, bedizened with lace and gold 
rings, to see us at C---- school: a man in the tenth part of a 
century learns a deal of worldly wisdom, and his hand, which goes 
naturally forward to seize the gloved finger of a millionnaire, or 
a milor, draws instinctively back from a dirty fist, encompassed by 
a ragged wristband and a tattered cuff.  But Attwood was in nowise 
so backward; and the iron squeeze with which he shook my passive 
paw, proved that he was either very affectionate or very poor.  
You, my dear sir, who are reading this history, know very well the 
great art of shaking hands: recollect how you shook Lord Dash's 
hand the other day, and how you shook OFF poor Blank, when he came 
to borrow five pounds of you.

However, the genial influence of the Hollands speedily dissipated 
anything like coolness between us and, in the course of an hour's 
conversation, we became almost as intimate as when we were 
suffering together under the ferule of old Swishtail.  Jack told me 
that he had quitted the army in disgust; and that his father, who 
was to leave him a fortune, had died ten thousand pounds in debt: 
he did not touch upon his own circumstances; but I could read them 
in his elbows, which were peeping through his old frock.  He talked 
a great deal, however, of runs of luck, good and bad; and related 
to me an infallible plan for breaking all the play-banks in Europe--
a great number of old tricks;--and a vast quantity of gin-punch 
was consumed on the occasion; so long, in fact, did our conversation
continue, that, I confess it with shame, the sentiment, or something
stronger, quite got the better of me, and I have, to this day, no
sort of notion how our palaver concluded.--Only, on the next
morning, I did not possess a certain five-pound note which on the
previous evening was in my sketch-book (by far the prettiest drawing
by the way in the collection) but there, instead, was a strip of
paper, thus inscribed:--


IOU
Five Pounds.  JOHN ATTWOOD,
Late of the N--th Dragoons.


I suppose Attwood borrowed the money, from this remarkable and 
ceremonious acknowledgment on his part: had I been sober I would 
just as soon have lent him the nose on my face; for, in my then 
circumstances, the note was of much more consequence to me.

As I lay, cursing my ill fortune, and thinking how on earth I 
should manage to subsist for the next two months, Attwood burst 
into my little garret--his face strangely flushed--singing and 
shouting as if it had been the night before.  "Titmarsh," cried he, 
"you are my preserver!--my best friend!  Look here, and here, and 
here!"  And at every word Mr. Attwood produced a handful of gold, 
or a glittering heap of five-franc pieces, or a bundle of greasy, 
dusky bank-notes, more beautiful than either silver or gold:--he 
had won thirteen thousand francs after leaving me at midnight in my 
garret.  He separated my poor little all, of six pieces, from this 
shining and imposing collection; and the passion of envy entered my 
soul: I felt far more anxious now than before, although starvation 
was then staring me in the face; I hated Attwood for CHEATING me 
out of all this wealth.  Poor fellow! it had been better for him 
had he never seen a shilling of it.

However, a grand breakfast at the Caf Anglais dissipated my 
chagrin; and I will do my friend the justice to say, that he nobly 
shared some portion of his good fortune with me.  As far as the 
creature comforts were concerned I feasted as well as he, and never 
was particular as to settling my share of the reckoning.

Jack now changed his lodgings; had cards, with Captain Attwood 
engraved on them, and drove about a prancing cab-horse, as tall as 
the giraffe at the Jardin des Plantes; he had as many frogs on his 
coat as in the old days, and frequented all the flash restaurateurs'
and boarding-houses of the capital.  Madame de Saint Laurent, and
Madame la Baronne de Vaudrey, and Madame la Comtesse de Jonville,
ladies of the highest rank, who keep a socit choisie and
condescend to give dinners at five-francs a head, vied with each
other in their attentions to Jack.  His was the wing of the fowl,
and the largest portion of the Charlotte-Russe; his was the place at
the cart table, where the Countess would ease him nightly of a few
pieces, declaring that he was the most charming cavalier, la fleur
d'Albion.  Jack's society, it may be seen, was not very select; nor,
in truth, were his inclinations: he was a careless, daredevil,
Macheath kind of fellow, who might be seen daily with a wife on each
arm.

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 Attwood.  He grew 
overbearing and cool, I thought; at any rate I did not admire my 
situation as his follower and dependant, and left his grand dinner 
for a certain ordinary, where I could partake of five capital 
dishes for ninepence.  Occasionally, however, Attwood favored me 
with a visit, or gave me a drive behind his great cab-horse.  He 
had formed a whole host of friends besides.  There was Fips, the 
barrister; heaven knows what he was doing at Paris; and Gortz, the 
West Indian, who was there on the same business, and Flapper, a 
medical student,--all these three I met one night at Flapper's 
rooms, where Jack was invited, and a great "spread" was laid in 
honor of him.

Jack arrived rather late--he looked pale and agitated; and, though 
he ate no supper, he drank raw brandy in such a manner as made 
Flapper's eyes wink: the poor fellow had but three bottles, and 
Jack bade fair to swallow them all.  However, the West Indian 
generously remedied the evil, and producing a napoleon, we speedily 
got the change for it in the shape of four bottles of champagne.

Our supper was uproariously harmonious; Fips sung the good "Old 
English Gentleman;" Jack the "British Grenadiers;" and your humble 
servant, when called upon, sang that beautiful ditty, "When the 
Bloom is on the Rye," in a manner that drew tears from every eye, 
except Flapper's, who was asleep, and Jack's, who was singing the 
"Bay of Biscay O," at the same time.  Gortz and Fips were all the 
time lunging at each other with a pair of single-sticks, the 
barrister having a very strong notion that he was Richard the 
Third.  At last Fips hit the West Indian such a blow across his 
sconce, that the other grew furious; he seized a champagne-bottle, 
which was, providentially, empty, and hurled it across the room at 
Fips: had that celebrated barrister not bowed his head at the 
moment, the Queen's Bench would have lost one of its most eloquent 
practitioners.

Fips stood as straight as he could; his cheek was pale with wrath.  
"M-m-ister Go-gortz," he said, "I always heard you were a 
blackguard; now I can pr-pr-peperove it.  Flapper, your pistols! 
every ge-ge-genlmn knows what I mean."

Young Mr. Flapper had a small pair of pocket-pistols, which the 
tipsy barrister had suddenly remembered, and with which he proposed 
to sacrifice the West Indian.  Gortz was nothing loth, but was 
quite as valorous as the lawyer.

Attwood, who, in spite of his potations, seemed the soberest man of 
the party, had much enjoyed the scene, until this sudden demand for 
the weapons.  "Pshaw!" said he, eagerly, "don't give these men the 
means of murdering each other; sit down and let us have another 
song."  But they would not be still; and Flapper forthwith produced 
his pistol-case, and opened it, in order that the duel might take 
place on the spot.  There were no pistols there!  "I beg your 
pardon," said Attwood, looking much confused; "I--I took the 
pistols home with me to clean them!"

I don't know what there was in his tone, or in the words, but we 
were sobered all of a sudden.  Attwood was conscious of the 
singular effect produced by him, for he blushed, and endeavored to 
speak of other things, but we could not bring our spirits back to 
the mark again, and soon separated for the night.  As we issued 
into the street Jack took me aside, and whispered, "Have you a 
napoleon, Titmarsh, in your purse?'  Alas! I was not so rich.  My 
reply was, that I was coming to Jack, only in the morning, to 
borrow a similar sum.

He did not make any reply, but turned away homeward: I never heard 
him speak another word.


Two mornings after (for none of our party met on the day succeeding 
the supper), I was awakened by my porter, who brought a pressing 
letter from Mr. Gortz:--


"DEAR T.,--I wish you would come over here to breakfast.  There's a 
row about 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 lodging.  If the reader is 
curious to know the house in which the catastrophe of this history 
took place, he has but to march some twenty doors down from the 
Boulevard des Italiens, when he will see a fine door, with a naked 
Cupid shooting at him from the hall, and a Venus beckoning him up 
the stairs.  On arriving at the West Indian's, at about mid-day (it 
was a Sunday morning), I found that gentleman in his dressing-gown, 
discussing, in the company of Mr Fips, a large plate of bifteck aux 
pommes.

"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 off?--has he cut his stick?"

"Not bad," said the feeling and elegant Fips--"not such a bad 
guess, my boy; but he has not exactly CUT HIS 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 entices men and ruins 
them; it is only a phantom of friendship and feeling, called up by 
the delirious blood, and the wicked spells of the wine.

But to drop this strain of moralizing (in which the writer is not 
too anxious to proceed, for he cuts in it a most pitiful figure), 
we passed sundry criticisms upon poor Attwood's character, 
expressed our horror at his death--which sentiment was fully proved 
by Mr. Fips, who declared that the notion of it made him feel quite 
faint, and was obliged to drink a large glass of brandy; and, 
finally, we agreed that we would go and see the poor fellow's 
corpse, and witness, if necessary, his burial.

Flapper, who had joined us, was the first to propose this visit: he 
said he did not mind the fifteen francs which Jack owed him for 
billiards, but he was anxious to GET BACK HIS PISTOL.  Accordingly, 
we sallied forth, and speedily arrived at the hotel which Attwood 
inhabited still.  He had occupied, for a time, very fine apartments 
in this house: and it was only on arriving there that day that we 
found he had been gradually driven from his magnificent suite of 
rooms au premier, to a little chamber in the fifth story:--we 
mounted, and found him.  It was a little shabby room, with a few 
articles of rickety furniture, and a bed in an alcove; the light 
from the one window was falling full upon the bed and the body.  
Jack was dressed in a fine lawn shirt; he had kept it, poor fellow, 
TO DIE IN; for in all his drawers and cupboards there was not a 
single article of clothing; he had pawned everything by which he 
could raise a penny--desk, books, dressing-case, and clothes; and 
not a single halfpenny was found in his possession.*


* In order to account for these trivial details, the reader must be 
told that the story is, for the chief part, a fact; and that the 
little sketch in this page was TAKEN FROM NATURE.  The latter was 
likewise a copy from one found in the manner described.


He was lying as I have drawn him,* one hand on his breast, the 
other falling towards the ground.  There was an expression of 
perfect calm on the face, and no mark of blood to stain the side 
towards the light.  On the other side, however, there was a great 
pool of black blood, and in it the pistol; it looked more like a 
toy than a weapon to take away the life of this vigorous young man.  
In his forehead, at the side, was a small black wound; Jack's life 
had passed through it; it was little bigger than a mole.


* This refers to an illustrated edition of the work.


"Regardez un peu," said the landlady, "messieurs, il m'a gt trois 
matelas, et il me doit quarante quatre francs."

This was all his epitaph: he had spoiled three mattresses, and owed 
the landlady four-and-forty francs.  In the whole world there was 
not a soul to love him or lament him.  We, his friends, were 
looking at his body more as an object of 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 read.  It was from 
one of his suspicious acquaintances of former days, and ran thus:--


"O es tu, cher Jack? why you not come and see me--tu me dois de 
l'argent, entends tu?--un chapeau, une cachemire, a box of the 
Play.  Viens demain soir, je t'attendrai at eight o'clock, Passage 
des Panoramas.  My Sir is at his country.

"Adieu  demain.

"Fifine.

"Samedi."


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  
DEMAIN!"--there was a dreadful meaning in the words, which the 
writer of them little knew.  "Adieu  demain!"--the morrow was 
come, and the soul of the poor suicide was now in the presence of 
God.  I dare not think of his fate; for, except in the fact of his 
poverty and desperation, was he worse than any of us, his 
companions, who had shared his debauches, and marched with him up 
to the very brink of the grave?

There is but one more circumstance to relate regarding poor Jack--
his burial; it was of a piece with his death.

He was nailed into a paltry coffin and buried, at the expense of 
the arrondissement, in a nook of the burial-place beyond the 
Barrire de l'Etoile.  They buried him at six o'clock, of a bitter 
winter's morning, and it was with difficulty that an English 
clergyman could be found to read a service over his grave.  The 
three men who have figured in this history acted as Jack's 
mourners; and as the ceremony was to take place so early in the 
morning, these men sat up the night through, AND WERE ALMOST DRUNK 
as they followed his coffin to its resting-place.


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 absurd outbreak of 
Strasburg, in which Prince Louis Napoleon Bonaparte figured, three 
years ago, must remember that, however silly the revolt was, 
however, foolish its pretext, however doubtful its aim, and 
inexperienced its leader, there was, nevertheless, a party, and a 
considerable one in France, that were not unwilling to lend the new 
projectors their aid.  The troops who declared against the Prince, 
were, it was said, all but willing to declare for him; and it was 
certain that, in many of the regiments of the army, there existed a 
strong spirit of disaffection, and an eager wish for the return of 
the imperial system and family.

As to the good that was to be derived from the change, that is 
another question.  Why the Emperor of the French should be better 
than the King of the French, or the King of the French better than 
the King of France and Navarre, it is not our business to inquire; 
but all the three monarchs have no lack of supporters; republicanism
has no lack of supporters; St. Simoninnism was followed by a
respectable body of admirers; Robespierrism has a select party of
friends.  If, in a country where so many quacks have had their day,
Prince Louis Napoleon thought he might renew the imperial quackery,
why should he not?  It has recollections with it that must always be
dear to a gallant nation; it has certain claptraps in its vocabulary
that can never fail to inflame a vain, restless, grasping,
disappointed one.

In the first place, and don't let us endeavor to disguise it, they 
hate us.  Not all the protestations of friendship, not all the 
wisdom of Lord Palmerston, not all the diplomacy of our distinguished
plenipotentiary, Mr. Henry Lytton Bulwer--and let us add, not all
the benefit which both countries would derive from the alliance--can
make it, in our times at least, permanent and cordial.  They hate
us.  The Carlist organs revile us with a querulous fury that never
sleeps; the moderate party, if they admit the utility of our
alliance, are continually pointing out our treachery, our insolence,
and our monstrous infractions of it; and for the Republicans, as
sure as the morning comes, the columns of their journals thunder out
volleys of fierce denunciations against our unfortunate country.
They live by feeding the natural hatred against England, by keeping
old wounds open, by recurring ceaselessly to the history of old
quarrels, and as in these we, by God's help, by land and by sea, in
old times and late, have had the uppermost, they perpetuate the
shame and mortification of the losing party, the bitterness of past
defeats, and the eager desire to avenge them.  A party which knows
how to exploiter this hatred will always be popular to a certain
extent; and the imperial scheme has this, at least, among its
conditions.

Then there is the favorite claptrap of the "natural frontier."  The 
Frenchman yearns to be bounded by the Rhine and the Alps; and next 
follows the cry, "Let France take her place among nations, and 
direct, as she ought to do, the affairs of Europe."  These are the 
two chief articles contained in the new imperial programme, if we 
may credit the journal which has been established to advocate the 
cause.  A natural boundary--stand among the nations--popular 
development--Russian alliance, and a reduction of la perfide Albion 
to its proper insignificance.  As yet we know little more of the 
plan: and yet such foundations are sufficient to build a party 
upon, and with such windy weapons a substantial Government is to be 
overthrown!

In order to give these doctrines, such as they are, a chance of 
finding favor with his countrymen, Prince Louis has the advantage 
of being able to refer to a former great professor of them--his 
uncle Napoleon.  His attempt is at once pious and prudent; it 
exalts the memory of the uncle, and furthers the interests of the 
nephew, who attempts to show what Napoleon's ideas really were; 
what good had already resulted from the practice of them; how 
cruelly they had been thwarted by foreign wars and difficulties; 
and what vast benefits WOULD have resulted from them; ay, and (it 
is reasonable to conclude) might still, if the French nation would 
be wise enough to pitch upon a governor that would continue the 
interrupted scheme.  It is, however, to be borne in mind that the 
Emperor Napoleon had certain arguments in favor of his opinions for 
the time being, which his nephew has not employed.  On the 13th 
Vendemiaire, when General Bonaparte believed in the excellence of a 
Directory, it may be remembered that he aided his opinions by forty 
pieces of artillery, and by Colonel Murat at the head of his 
dragoons.  There was no resisting such a philosopher; the Directory 
was established forthwith, and the sacred cause of the minority 
triumphed, in like manner, when the General was convinced of the 
weakness of the Directory, and saw fully the necessity of 
establishing a Consulate, what were his arguments?  Moreau, Lannes, 
Murat, Berthier, Leclerc, Lefebvre--gentle apostles of the truth!--
marched to St. Cloud, and there, with fixed bayonets, caused it to 
prevail.  Error vanished in an instant.  At once five hundred of 
its high-priests tumbled out of windows, and lo! three Consuls 
appeared to guide the destinies of France!  How much more 
expeditious, reasonable, and clinching was this argument of the 
18th Brumaire, than any one that can be found in any pamphlet!  A 
fig for your duodecimos and octavos!  Talk about points, there are 
none like those at the end of a bayonet; and the most powerful of 
styles is a good rattling "article" from a nine-pounder.

At least this is our interpretation of the manner in which were 
always propagated the Ides Napoloniennes.  Not such, however, is 
Prince Louis's belief; and, if you wish to go along with him in 
opinion, you will discover that a more liberal, peaceable, prudent 
Prince never existed: you will read that "the mission of Napoleon" 
was to be the "testamentary executor of the revolution;" and the 
Prince should have added the legatee; or, more justly still, as 
well as the EXECUTOR, he should be called the EXECUTIONER, and then 
his title would be complete.  In Vendemiaire, the military 
Tartuffe, he threw aside the Revolution's natural heirs, and made 
her, as it were, ALTER HER WILL; on the 18th of Brumaire he 
strangled her, and on the 19th seized on her property, and kept it 
until force deprived him of it.  Illustrations, to be sure, are no 
arguments, but the example is the Prince's, not ours.

In the Prince's eyes, then, his uncle is a god; of all monarchs, 
the most wise, upright, and merciful.  Thirty years ago the opinion 
had millions of supporters; while millions again were ready to 
avouch the exact contrary.  It is curious to think of the former 
difference of opinion concerning Napoleon; and, in reading his 
nephew's rapturous encomiums of him, one goes back to the days when 
we ourselves were as loud and mad in his dispraise.  Who does not 
remember his own personal hatred and horror, twenty-five years ago, 
for the man whom we used to call the "bloody Corsican upstart and 
assassin?"  What stories did we not believe of him?--what murders, 
rapes, robberies, not lay to his charge?--we who were living within 
a few miles of his territory, and might, by books and newspapers, 
be made as well acquainted with his merits or demerits as any of 
his own countrymen.

Then was the age when the Ides Napoloniennes might have passed 
through many editions; for while we were thus outrageously bitter, 
our neighbors were as extravagantly attached to him by a strange 
infatuation--adored him like a god, whom we chose to consider as a 
fiend; and vowed that, under his government, their nation had 
attained its highest pitch of grandeur and glory.  In revenge there 
existed in England (as is proved by a thousand authentic documents) 
a monster so hideous, a tyrant so ruthless and bloody, that the 
world's history cannot show his parallel.  This ruffian's name was, 
during the early part of the French revolution, Pittetcobourg.  
Pittetcobourg's emissaries were in every corner of France; 
Pittetcobourg's gold chinked in the pockets of every traitor in 
Europe; it menaced the life of the godlike Robespierre; it drove 
into cellars and fits of delirium even the gentle philanthropist 
Marat; it fourteen times caused the dagger to be lifted against the 
bosom of the First Consul, Emperor, and King,--that first, great, 
glorious, irresistible, cowardly, contemptible, bloody hero and 
fiend, Bonaparte, before mentioned.

On our side of the Channel we have had leisure, long since, to re-
consider our verdict against Napoleon; though, to be sure, we have 
not changed our opinion about Pittetcobourg.  After five-and-thirty 
years all parties bear witness to his honesty, and speak with 
affectionate reverence of his patriotism, his genius, and his 
private virtue.  In France, however, or, at least among certain 
parties in France, there has been no such modification of opinion.  
With the Republicans, Pittetcobourg is Pittetcobourg still,--
crafty, bloody, seeking whom he may devour; and perfide Albion more 
perfidious than ever.  This hatred is the point of union between 
the Republic and the Empire; it has been fostered ever since, and 
must be continued by Prince Louis, if he would hope to conciliate 
both parties.

With regard to the Emperor, then, Prince Louis erects to his memory 
as fine a monument as his wits can raise.  One need not say that 
the imperial apologist's opinion should be received with the utmost 
caution; for a man who has such a hero for an uncle may naturally 
be proud of and partial to him; and when this nephew of the great 
man would be his heir likewise, and, hearing his name, step also 
into his imperial shoes, one may reasonably look for much 
affectionate panegyric.  "The empire was the best of empires," 
cries the Prince; and possibly it was; undoubtedly, the Prince 
thinks it was; but he is the very last person who would convince a 
man with the proper suspicious impartiality.  One remembers a 
certain consultation of politicians which is recorded in the 
Spelling-book; and the opinion of that patriotic sage who avowed 
that, for a real blameless constitution, an impenetrable shield for 
liberty, and cheap defence of nations, there was nothing like 
leather.

Let us examine some of the Prince's article.  If we may be allowed 
humbly to express an opinion, his leather is not only quite 
insufficient for those vast public purposes for which he destines 
it, but is, moreover, and in itself, very BAD LEATHER.  The hides 
are poor, small, unsound slips of skin; or, to drop this cobbling 
metaphor, the style is not particularly brilliant, the facts not 
very startling, and, as for the conclusions, one may differ with 
almost every one of them.  Here is an extract from his first 
chapter, "on governments in general:"--

"I speak it with regret, I can see but two governments, at this 
day, which fulfil the mission that Providence has confided to them; 
they are the two colossi at the end of the world; one at the 
extremity of the old world, the other at the extremity of the new.  
Whilst our old European centre is as a volcano, consuming itself in 
its crater, the two nations of the East and the West, march without 
hesitation, towards perfection; the one under the will of a single 
individual, the other under liberty.

"Providence has confided to the United States of North America the 
task of peopling and civilizing that immense territory which 
stretches from the Atlantic to the South Sea, and from the North 
Pole to the Equator.  The Government, which is only a simple 
administration, has only hitherto been called upon to put in 
practice the old adage, Laissez faire, laissez passer, in order to 
favor that irresistible instinct which pushes the people of America 
to the west.

In Russia it is to the imperial dynasty that is owing all the vast 
progress which, in a century and a half, has rescued that empire 
from barbarism.  The imperial power must contend against all the 
ancient prejudices of our old Europe: it must centralize, as far as 
possible, all the powers of the state in the hands of one person, 
in order to destroy the abuses which the feudal and communal 
franchises have served to perpetuate.  The last alone can hope to 
receive from it the improvements which it expects.

"But thou, France of Henry IV., of Louis XIV., of Carnot, of 
Napoleon--thou, who wert always for the west of Europe the source 
of progress, who possessest in thyself the two great pillars of 
empire, the genius for the arts of peace and the genius of war--
hast thou no further mission to fulfil?  Wilt thou never cease to 
waste thy force and energies in intestine struggles?  No; such 
cannot be thy destiny: the day will soon come, when, to govern 
thee, it will be necessary to understand that thy part is to place 
in all treaties thy sword of Brennus on the side of civilization."

These are the conclusions of the Prince's remarks upon governments 
in general; and it must be supposed that the reader is very little 
wiser at the end than at the beginning.  But two governments in the 
world fulfil their mission: the one government, which is no 
government; the other, which is a despotism.  The duty of France is 
IN ALL TREATIES to place her sword of Brennus in the scale of 
civilization.  Without quarrelling with the somewhat confused 
language of the latter proposition, may we ask what, in heaven's 
name, is the meaning of all the three?  What is this pe de 
Brennus? and how is France to use it?  Where is the great source of 
political truth, from which, flowing pure, we trace American 
republicanism in one stream, Russian despotism in another?  Vastly 
prosperous is the great republic, if you will: if dollars and cents 
constitute happiness, there is plenty for all: but can any one, who 
has read of the American doings in the late frontier troubles, and 
the daily disputes on the slave question, praise the GOVERNMENT of 
the States?--a Government which dares not punish homicide or arson 
performed before its very eyes, and which the pirates of Texas and 
the pirates of Canada can brave at their will?  There is no 
government, but a prosperous anarchy; as the Prince's other 
favorite government is a prosperous slavery.  What, then, is to be 
the pe de Brennus government?  Is it to be a mixture of the two?  
"Society," writes the Prince, axiomatically, "contains in itself 
two principles--the one of progress and immortality, the other of 
disease and disorganization."  No doubt; and as the one tends 
towards liberty, so the other is only to be cured by order: and 
then, with a singular felicity, Prince Louis picks us out a couple 
of governments, in one of which the common regulating power is as 
notoriously too weak, as it is in the other too strong, and talks 
in rapturous terms of the manner in which they fulfil their 
"providential mission!"

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 Revolution.  The destructive 
fire of parties was extinct; and when the Revolution, dying, but 
not vanquished, delegated to Napoleon the accomplishment of her 
last will, she said to him, 'Establish upon solid bases the 
principal result of my efforts.  Unite divided Frenchmen.  Defeat 
feudal Europe that is leagued against me.  Cicatrize my wounds.  
Enlighten the nations.  Execute that in width, which I have had to 
perform in depth.  Be for Europe what I have been for France.  And, 
even if you must water the tree of civilization with your blood--if 
you must see your projects misunderstood, and your sons without a 
country, wandering over the face of the earth, never abandon the 
sacred cause of the French people.  Insure its triumph by all the 
means which genius can discover and humanity approve.'

"This grand mission Napoleon performed to the end.  His task was 
difficult.  He had to place upon new principles a society still 
boiling with hatred and revenge; and to use, for building up, the 
same instruments which had been employed for pulling down.

"The common lot of every new truth that arises, is to wound rather 
than to convince--rather than to gain proselytes, to awaken fear.  
For, oppressed as it long has been, it rushes forward with 
additional force; having to encounter obstacles, it is compelled to 
combat them, and overthrow them; until, at length, comprehended and 
adopted by the generality, it 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 down her arms of war.  It 
laid open to all the principles of peace and order which it 
contained; it became the prop of Government, as it was the 
organizing element of society.  Thus will it be with liberty.  In 
1793 it frightened people and sovereigns alike; then, having 
clothed itself in a milder garb, IT INSINUATED ITSELF EVERYWHERE IN 
THE TRAIN OF OUR BATTALIONS.  In 1815 all parties adopted its flag, 
and armed themselves with its moral force--covered themselves with 
its colors.  The adoption was not sincere, and liberty was soon 
obliged to reassume its warlike accoutrements.  With the contest 
their fears returned.  Let us hope that they will soon cease, and 
that liberty will soon resume her peaceful standards, to quit them 
no more.

"The Emperor Napoleon contributed more than any one else towards 
accelerating the reign of liberty, by saving the moral influence 
of the revolution, and diminishing the fears which it imposed.  
Without the Consulate and the Empire, the revolution would have 
been only a grand drama, leaving grand revolutions but no traces: 
the revolution would have been drowned in the counter-revolution.  
The contrary, however, was the case.  Napoleon rooted the 
revolution in France, and introduced, throughout Europe, the 
principal benefits of the crisis of 1789.  To use his own words, 
'He purified the revolution, he confirmed kings, and ennobled 
people.'  He purified the revolution, in separating the truths 
which it contained from the passions that, during its delirium, 
disfigured it.  He ennobled the people in giving them the 
consciousness of their force, and those institutions which raise 
men in their own eyes.  The Emperor may be considered as the 
Messiah of the new ideas; for--and we must confess it--in the 
moments immediately succeeding a social revolution, it is not so 
essential to put rigidly into practice all the propositions 
resulting from the new theory, but to become master of the 
regenerative genius, to identify one's self with the sentiments of 
the people, and boldly to direct them towards the desired point.  
To accomplish such a task YOUR FIBRE SHOULD RESPOND TO THAT OF THE 
PEOPLE, as the Emperor said; you should feel like it, your 
interests should be so intimately raised with its own, that you 
should vanquish or fall together."

Let us take breath after these big phrases,--grand round figures of 
speech,--which, when put together, amount like certain other 
combinations of round figures to exactly 0.  We shall not stop to 
argue the merits and demerits of Prince Louis's notable comparison 
between the Christian religion and the Imperial-revolutionary 
system.  There are many blunders in the above extract as we read 
it; blundering metaphors, blundering arguments, and blundering 
assertions; but this is surely the grandest blunder of all; and one 
wonders at the blindness of the legislator and historian who can 
advance such a parallel.  And what are we to say of the legacy of 
the dying revolution to Napoleon?  Revolutions do not die, and, on 
their death-beds, making fine speeches, hand over their property to 
young officers of artillery.  We have all read the history of his 
rise.  The constitution of the year III. was carried.  Old men of 
the Montagne, disguised royalists, Paris sections, PITTETCOBOURG, 
above all, with his money-bags, thought that here was a fine 
opportunity for a revolt, and opposed the new constitution in arms: 
the new constitution had knowledge of a young officer who would not 
hesitate to defend its cause, and who effectually beat the 
majority.  The tale may be found in every account of the 
revolution, and the rest of his story need not be told.  We know 
every step that he took: we know how, by doses of cannon-balls 
promptly administered, he cured the fever of the sections--that 
fever which another camp-physician (Menou) declined to prescribe 
for; we know how he abolished the Directory; and how the Consulship 
came; and then the Empire; and then the disgrace, exile, and lonely 
death.  Has not all this been written by historians in all 
tongues?--by memoir-writing pages, chamberlains, marshals, lackeys, 
secretaries, contemporaries, and ladies of honor?  Not a word of 
miracle is there in all this narration; not a word of celestial 
missions, or political Messiahs.  From Napoleon's rise to his fall, 
the bayonet marches alongside of him: now he points it at the tails 
of the scampering "five hundred,"--now he charges with it across 
the bloody planks of Arcola--now he flies before it over the fatal 
plain of Waterloo.

Unwilling, however, as he may be to grant that there are any spots 
in the character of his hero's government, the Prince is, 
nevertheless, obliged to allow that such existed; that the 
Emperor's manner of rule was a little more abrupt and dictatorial 
than might possibly be agreeable.  For this the Prince has always 
an answer ready--it is the same poor one that Napoleon uttered a 
million of times to his companions in exile--the excuse of 
necessity.  He WOULD have been very liberal, but that the people 
were not fit for it; or that the cursed war prevented him--or any 
other reason why.  His first duty, however, says his apologist, was 
to form a general union of Frenchmen, and he set about his plan in 
this wise:--

"Let us not forget, that all which Napoleon undertook, in order to 
create a general fusion, he performed without renouncing the 
principles of the revolution.  He recalled the migrs, without 
touching upon the law by which their goods had been confiscated and 
sold as public property.  He reestablished the Catholic religion at 
the same time that he proclaimed the liberty of conscience, and 
endowed equally the ministers of all sects.  He caused himself to 
be consecrated by the Sovereign Pontiff, without conceding to the 
Pope's demand any of the liberties of the Gallican church.  He 
married a daughter of the Emperor of Austria, without abandoning 
any of the rights of France to the conquests she had made.  He 
reestablished noble titles, without attaching to them any 
privileges or prerogatives, and these titles were conferred on all 
ranks, on all services, on all professions.  Under the empire all 
idea of caste was destroyed; no man ever thought of vaunting his 
pedigree--no man ever was asked how he was born, but what he had 
done.

"The first quality of a people which aspires to liberal government, 
is respect to the law.  Now, a law has no other power than lies in 
the interest which each citizen has to defend or to contravene it.  
In order to make a people respect the law, it was necessary that it 
should be executed in the interest of all, and should consecrate 
the principle of equality in all its extension.  It was necessary 
to restore the prestige with which the Government had been formerly 
invested, and to make the principles of the revolution take root in 
the public manners.  At the commencement of a new society, it is 
the legislator who makes or corrects the manners; later, it is the 
manners which make the law, or preserve it from age to age intact."

Some of these fusions are amusing.  No man in the empire was asked 
how he was born, but what he had done; and, accordingly, as a man's 
actions were sufficient to illustrate him, the Emperor took care to 
make a host of new title-bearers, princes, dukes, barons, and what 
not, whose rank has descended to their children.  He married a 
princess of Austria; but, for all that, did not abandon his 
conquests--perhaps not actually; but he abandoned his allies, and, 
eventually, his whole kingdom.  Who does not recollect his answer 
to the Poles, at the commencement of the Russian campaign?  But for 
Napoleon's imperial father-in-law, Poland would have been a 
kingdom, and his race, perhaps, imperial still.  Why was he to 
fetch this princess out of Austria to make heirs for his throne?  
Why did not the man of the people marry a girl of the people?  Why 
must he have a Pope to crown him--half a dozen kings for brothers, 
and a bevy of aides-de-camp dressed out like so many mountebanks 
from Astley's, with dukes' coronets, and grand blue velvet 
marshals' btons?  We have repeatedly his words for it.  He wanted 
to create an aristocracy--another acknowledgment on his part of the 
Republican dilemma--another apology for the revolutionary blunder.  
To keep the republic within bounds, a despotism is necessary; to 
rally round the despotism, an aristocracy must be created; and for 
what have we been laboring all this while? for what have bastiles 
been battered down, and king's heads hurled, as a gage of battle, 
in the face of armed Europe?  To have a Duke of Otranto instead of 
a Duke de la Tremouille, and Emperor Stork in place of King Log.  O 
lame conclusion!  Is the blessed revolution which is prophesied for 
us in England only to end in establishing a Prince Fergus O'Connor, 
or a Cardinal Wade, or a Duke Daniel Whittle Harvey?  Great as 
those patriots are, we love them better under their simple family 
names, and scorn titles and coronets.

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 honors and titles; it was 
necessary, as the Prince confesses, to restore the old prestige of 
the Government, in order to make the people respect it; and he 
adds--a truth which one hardly would expect from him,--"At the 
commencement of a new society, it is the legislator who makes and 
corrects the manners; later, it is the manners which preserve 
the laws."  Of course, and here is the great risk that all 
revolutionizing people run--they must tend to despotism; "they must 
personify themselves in a man," is the Prince's phrase; and, 
according as is his temperament or disposition--according as he is 
a Cromwell, a Washington, or a Napoleon--the revolution becomes 
tyranny or freedom, prospers or falls.

Somewhere in the St. Helena memorials, Napoleon reports a message 
of his to the Pope.  "Tell the Pope," he says to an archbishop, "to 
remember that I have six hundred thousand armed Frenchmen, qui 
marcheront avec moi, pour moi, et comme moi."  And this is the 
legacy of the revolution, the advancement of freedom!  A hundred 
volumes of imperial special pleading will not avail against such 
a speech as this--one so insolent, and at the same time so 
humiliating, which gives unwittingly the whole of the Emperor's 
progress, strength, and weakness.  The six hundred thousand armed 
Frenchmen were used up, and the whole fabric falls; the six hundred 
thousand are reduced to sixty thousand, and straightway all the 
rest of the fine imperial scheme vanishes: the miserable senate, so 
crawling and abject but now, becomes of a sudden endowed with a 
wondrous independence; the miserable sham nobles, sham empress, 
sham kings, dukes, princes, chamberlains, pack up their plumes and 
embroideries, pounce upon what money and plate they can lay their 
hands on, and when the allies appear before Paris, when for courage 
and manliness there is yet hope, when with fierce marches hastening 
to the relief of his capital, bursting through ranks upon ranks of 
the enemy, and crushing or scattering them from the path of his 
swift and victorious despair, the Emperor at last is at home,--
where are the great dignitaries and the lieutenant-generals of the 
empire?  Where is Maria Louisa, the Empress Eagle, with her little 
callow king of Rome?  Is she going to defend her nest and her 
eaglet?  Not she.  Empress-queen, lieutenant-general, and court 
dignitaries, are off on the wings of all the winds--profligati 
sunt, they are away with the money-bags, and Louis Stanislas Xavier 
rolls into the palace of his fathers.

With regard to Napoleon's excellences as an administrator, a 
legislator, a constructor of public works, and a skilful financier, 
his nephew speaks with much diffuse praise, and few persons, we 
suppose, will be disposed to contradict him.  Whether the Emperor 
composed his famous code, or borrowed it, is of little importance; 
but he established it, and made the law equal for every man in 
France except one.  His vast public works and vaster wars were 
carried on without new loans or exorbitant taxes; it was only the 
blood and liberty of the people that were taxed, and we shall want 
a better advocate than Prince Louis to show us that these were not 
most unnecessarily and lavishly thrown away.  As for the former and 
material improvements, it is not necessary to confess here that a 
despotic energy can effect such far more readily than a Government 
of which the strength is diffused in many conflicting parties.  No 
doubt, if we could create a despotical governing machine, a steam 
autocrat,--passionless, untiring, and supreme,--we should advance 
further, and live more at ease than under any other form of 
government.  Ministers might enjoy their pensions and follow their 
own devices; Lord John might compose histories or tragedies at his 
leisure, and Lord Palmerston, instead of racking his brains to 
write leading articles for Cupid, might crown his locks with 
flowers, and sing [Greek text omitted], his natural Anacreontics; 
but alas! not so: if the despotic Government has its good side, 
Prince Louis Napoleon must acknowledge that it has its bad, and it 
is for this that the civilized world is compelled to substitute for 
it something more orderly and less capricious.  Good as the 
Imperial Government might have been, it must be recollected, too, 
that since its first fall, both the Emperor and his admirer and 
would-be successor have had their chance of re-establishing it.  
"Fly from steeple to steeple" the eagles of the former did 
actually, and according to promise perch for a while on the towers 
of Notre Dame.  We know the event: if the fate of war declared 
against the Emperor, the country declared against him too; and, 
with old Lafayette for a mouthpiece, the representatives of the 
nation did, in a neat speech, pronounce themselves in permanence, 
but spoke no more of the Emperor than if he had never been.  
Thereupon the Emperor proclaimed his son the Emperor Napoleon II.  
"L'Empereur est mort, vive l'Empereur!" shouted Prince Lucien.  
Psha! not a soul echoed the words: the play was played, and as for 
old Lafayette and his "permanent" representatives, a corporal with 
a hammer nailed up the door of their spouting-club, and once more 
Louis Stanislas Xavier rolled back to the bosom of his people.

In like manner Napoleon III. returned from exile, and made his 
appearance on the frontier.  His eagle appeared at Strasburg, and 
from Strasburg advanced to the capital; but it arrived at Paris 
with a keeper, and in a post-chaise; whence, by the orders of the 
sovereign, it was removed to the American shores, and there 
magnanimously let loose.  Who knows, however, how soon it may be on 
the wing again, and what a flight it will take?




THE STORY OF MARY ANCEL.


"Go, my nephew," said old Father Jacob to me, "and complete thy 
studies at Strasburg: Heaven surely hath ordained thee for the 
ministry in these times of trouble, and my excellent friend 
Schneider will work out the divine intention."

Schneider was an old college friend of uncle Jacob's, was a 
Benedictine monk, and a man famous for his learning; as for me, 
I was at that time my uncle's chorister, clerk, and sacristan;
I swept the church, chanted the prayers with my shrill treble, and 
swung the great copper incense-pot on Sundays and feasts; and I 
toiled over the Fathers for the other days of the week.

The old gentleman said that my progress was prodigious, and, 
without vanity, I believe he was right, for I then verily 
considered that praying was my vocation, and not fighting, as 
I have found since.

You would hardly conceive (said the Captain, swearing a great oath) 
how devout and how learned I was in those days; I talked Latin 
faster than my own beautiful patois of Alsacian French; I could 
utterly overthrow in argument every Protestant (heretics we called 
them) parson in the neighborhood, and there was a confounded 
sprinkling of these unbelievers in our part of the country.  I 
prayed half a dozen times a day; I fasted thrice in a week; and, as 
for penance, I used to scourge my little sides, till they had no 
more feeling than a peg-top: such was the godly life I led at my 
uncle Jacob's in the village of Steinbach.

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 fifteen, five farmers, three lawyers, twelve 
Protestant parsons, and a lieutenant of Dragoons had made her 
offers: it must not be denied that she was an heiress as well as a 
beauty, which, perhaps, had something to do with the love of these 
gentlemen.  However, Mary declared that she intended to live 
single, turned away her lovers one after another, and devoted 
herself to the care of her father.

Uncle Jacob was as fond of her as he was of any saint or martyr.  
As for me, at the mature age of twelve I had made a kind of 
divinity of her, and when we sang "Ave Maria" on Sundays I could 
not refrain from turning to her, where she knelt, blushing and 
praying and looking like an angel, as she was.  Besides her beauty, 
Mary had a thousand good qualities; she could play better on the 
harpsichord, she could dance more lightly, she could make better 
pickles and puddings, than any girl in Alsace; there was not a want 
or a fancy of the old hunks her father, or a wish of mine or my 
uncle's, that she would not gratify if she could; as for herself, 
the sweet soul had neither wants nor wishes except to see us happy.

I could talk to you for a year of all the pretty kindnesses that 
she would do for me; how, when she found me of early mornings among 
my books, her presence "would cast a light upon the day;" how she 
used to smooth and fold my little surplice, and embroider me caps 
and gowns for high feast-days; how she used to bring flowers for 
the altar, and who could deck it so well as she?  But sentiment 
does not come glibly from under a grizzled moustache, so I will 
drop it, if you please.

Amongst other favors she showed me, Mary used to be particularly 
fond of kissing me: it was a thing I did not so much value in those 
days, but I found that the more I grew alive to the extent of the 
benefit, the less she would condescend to confer it on me; till at 
last, when I was about fourteen, she discontinued it altogether, of 
her own wish at least; only sometimes I used to be rude, and take 
what she had now become so mighty unwilling to give.

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 frightened at the commencement 
of the scene, grew very angry at the coarse words he used, and the 
wicked motives he imputed to her.

"The child is but fourteen," she said; "he is your own nephew, and 
a candidate for holy orders:--father, it is a shame that you should 
thus speak of me, your daughter, or of one of his holy profession."

I did not particularly admire this speech myself, but it had an 
effect on my uncle, and was the cause of the words with which this 
history commences.  The old gentleman persuaded his brother that I 
must be sent to Strasburg, and there kept until my studies for the 
church were concluded.  I was furnished with a letter to my uncle's 
old college chum, Professor Schneider, who was to instruct me in 
theology and Greek.

I was not sorry to see Strasburg, of the wonders of which I had 
heard so much; but felt very loth as the time drew near when I must 
quit my pretty cousin, and my good old uncle.  Mary and I managed, 
however, a parting walk, in which a number of tender things were 
said on both sides.  I am told that you Englishmen consider it 
cowardly to cry; as for me, I wept and roared incessantly: when 
Mary squeezed me, for the last time, the tears came out of me as if 
I had been neither more nor less than a great wet sponge.  My 
cousin's eyes were stoically dry; her ladyship had a part to play, 
and it would have been wrong for her to be in love with a young 
chit of fourteen--so she carried herself with perfect coolness, as 
if there was nothing the matter.  I should not have known that she 
cared for me, had it not been for a letter which she wrote me a 
month afterwards--THEN, nobody was by, and the consequence was that 
the letter was half washed away with her weeping; if she had used a 
watering-pot the thing could not have been better done.

Well, I arrived at Strasburg--a dismal, old-fashioned, rickety town 
in those days--and straightway presented myself and letter at 
Schneider's door; over it was written--


     COMIT DE SALUT PUBLIC.


Would you believe it?  I was so ignorant a young fellow, that I had 
no idea of the meaning of the words; however, I 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 with portraits of Robespierre, Marat, and 
the like; a great bust of Mirabeau, mutilated, with the word 
Tratre underneath; lists and republican proclamations, tobacco-
pipes and fire-arms.  At a deal-table, stained with grease and 
wine, sat a gentleman, with a huge pigtail dangling down to that 
part of his person which immediately succeeds his back, and a red 
nightcap, containing a TRICOLOR cockade as large as a pancake.  He 
was smoking a short pipe, reading a little book, and sobbing as if 
his heart would break.  Every now and then he would make brief 
remarks upon the personages or the incidents of his book, by which 
I could judge that he was a man of the very keenest sensibilities--
"Ah, brigand!"  "O malheureuse!"  "O Charlotte, Charlotte!"  The 
work which this gentleman was perusing is called "The Sorrows of 
Werter;" it was all the rage, in those days, and my friend was only 
following the fashion.  I asked him if I could see Father 
Schneider? he turned towards me a hideous, pimpled face, which I 
dream of now at forty years' distance.

"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 abb, 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 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 Wrzburg, and 
afterwards entered a convent, where he remained nine years.  He 
here became distinguished for his learning and his talents as a 
preacher, and became chaplain to Duke Charles of Wrtemberg.  The 
doctrines of the Illuminati began about this time to spread in 
Germany, and Schneider speedily joined the sect.  He had been a 
professor of Greek at Cologne; and being compelled, on account of 
his irregularity, to give up his chair, he came to Strasburg at the 
commencement of the French Revolution, and acted for some time a 
principal part as a revolutionary agent at Strasburg.

["Heaven knows what would have happened to me had I continued long 
under his tuition!" said the Captain.  "I owe the preservation of 
my morals entirely to my entering the army.  A man, sir, who is a 
soldier, has very little time to be wicked; except in the case of a 
siege and the sack of a town, when a little license can offend 
nobody."]

By the time that my friend had concluded Schneider's biography, we 
had grown tolerably intimate, and I imparted to him (with that 
experience so remarkable in youth) my whole history--my course of 
studies, my pleasant country life, the names and qualities of my 
dear relations, and my occupations in the vestry before religion 
was abolished by order of the Republic.  In the course of my speech 
I recurred so often to the name of my cousin Mary, that the 
gentleman could not fail to perceive what a tender place she had in 
my heart.

Then we reverted to "The Sorrows of Werter," and discussed the 
merits of that sublime performance.  Although I had before felt 
some misgivings about my new acquaintance, my heart now quite 
yearned towards him.  He talked about love and sentiment in a 
manner which made me recollect that I was in love myself; and you 
know that when a man is in that condition, his taste is not very 
refined, any maudlin trash of prose or verse appearing sublime to 
him, provided it correspond, in some degree, with his own 
situation.

"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 
endeavoring 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 astonishment, something very like 
a blow.

"You drunken, talking fool," he said, "you are always after your 
time.  Fourteen people are cooling their heels yonder, waiting 
until you have finished your beer and your sentiment!"

My friend slunk muttering out of the room.

"That fellow," said Schneider, turning to me, "is our public 
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 ardor.  As for 
me, I shared the general mania, and speedily mounted a cockade as 
large as that of my friend, the executioner.

The occupations of this worthy were unremitting.  Saint Just, who 
had come down from Paris to preside over our town, executed the 
laws and the aristocrats with terrible punctuality; and Schneider 
used to make country excursions in search of offenders with this 
fellow, as a provost-marshal, at his back.  In the meantime, having 
entered my sixteenth year, and being a proper lad of my age, I had 
joined a regiment of cavalry, and was scampering now after the 
Austrians who menaced us, and now threatening the Emigrs, who were 
banded at Coblentz.  My love for my dear cousin increased as my 
whiskers grew; and when I was scarcely seventeen, I thought myself 
man enough to marry her, and to cut the throat of any one who 
should venture to say me nay.

I need not tell you that during my absence at Strasburg, great 
changes had occurred in our little village, and somewhat of the 
revolutionary rage had penetrated even to that quiet and distant 
place.  The hideous "Fte of the Supreme Being" had been celebrated 
at Paris; the practice of our ancient religion was forbidden; its 
professors were most of them in concealment, or in exile, or had 
expiated on the scaffold their crime of Christianity.  In our poor 
village my uncle's church was closed, and he, himself, an inmate in 
my brother's house, only owing his safety to his great popularity 
among his former flock, and the influence of Edward Ancel.

The latter had taken in the Revolution a somewhat prominent part; 
that is, he had engaged in many contracts for the army, attended 
the clubs regularly, corresponded with the authorities of his 
department, and was loud in his denunciations of the aristocrats in 
the neighborhood.  But owing, perhaps, to the German origin of the 
peasantry, and their quiet and rustic lives, the revolutionary fury 
which prevailed in the cities had hardly reached the country 
people.  The occasional visit of a commissary from Paris or 
Strasburg served to keep the flame alive, and to remind the rural 
swains of the existence of a Republic in France.

Now and then, when I could gain a week's leave of absence, I 
returned to the village, and was received with tolerable politeness 
by my uncle, and with a warmer feeling by his daughter.

I won't describe to you the progress of our love, or the wrath of 
my uncle Edward, when he discovered that it still continued.  He 
swore and he stormed; he locked Mary into her chamber, and vowed 
that he would withdraw the allowance he made me, if ever I ventured 
near her.  His daughter, he said, should never marry a hopeless, 
penniless subaltern; and Mary declared she would not marry without 
his consent.  What had I to do?--to despair and to leave her.  As 
for my poor uncle Jacob, he had no counsel to give me, and, indeed, 
no spirit left: his little church was turned into a stable, his 
surplice torn off his shoulders, and he was only too lucky in 
keeping HIS HEAD on them.  A bright thought struck him: suppose you 
were to ask the advice of my old friend Schneider regarding this 
marriage? he has ever been your friend, and may help you now as 
before.

(Here the Captain paused a little.)  You may fancy (continued he) 
that it was droll advice of a reverend gentleman like uncle Jacob 
to counsel me in this manner, and to bid me make friends with such 
a murderous cut-throat as Schneider; but we thought nothing of it 
in those days; guillotining was as common as dancing, and a man was 
only thought the better patriot the more severe he might be.  I 
departed forthwith to Strasburg, and requested the vote and 
interest of the Citizen President of the Committee of Public 
Safety.

He heard me with a great deal of attention.  I described to him 
most minutely the circumstance, expatiated upon the charms of my 
dear Mary, and painted her to him from head to foot.  Her golden 
hair and her bright blushing cheeks, her slim waist and her 
tripping tiny feet; and furthermore, I added that she possessed a 
fortune which ought, by rights, to be mine, but for the miserly old 
father.  "Curse him for an aristocrat!" concluded I, in my wrath.

As I had been discoursing about Mary's charms Schneider listened 
with much complacency and attention: when I spoke about her 
fortune, his interest redoubled; and when I called her father an 
aristocrat, the worthy ex-Jesuit gave a grin of satisfaction, which 
was really quite terrible.  O fool that I was to trust him so far!


The very same evening an officer waited upon me with the following 
note from Saint Just:--


"STRASBURG, Fifth year of the Republic, one and indivisible, 11 
Ventose.

"The citizen Pierre Ancel is to leave Strasburg within two hours, 
and to carry the enclosed despatches to the President of the 
Committee of Public Safety at Paris.  The necessary leave of 
absence from his military duties has been provided.  Instant 
punishment will follow the slightest delay on the road.

Salut et Fraternit."


There was no choice but obedience, and off I sped on my weary way 
to the capital.

As I was riding out of the Paris gate I met an equipage which I 
knew to be that of Schneider.  The ruffian smiled at me as I 
passed, and wished me a bon voyage.  Behind his chariot came a 
curious machine, or cart; a great basket, three stout poles, and 
several planks, all painted red, were lying in this vehicle, on the 
top of which was seated my friend with the big cockade.  It was the 
PORTABLE GUILLOTINE which Schneider always carried with him on his 
travels.  The bourreau was reading "The Sorrows of Werter," and 
looked as sentimental as usual.

I will not speak of my voyage in order to relate to you 
Schneider's.  My story had awakened the wretch's curiosity and 
avarice, and he was determined that such a prize as I had shown my 
cousin to be should fall into no hands but his own.  No sooner, in 
fact, had I quitted his room than he procured the order for my 
absence, and was on the way to Steinbach as I met him.

The journey is not a very long one; and on the next day my uncle 
Jacob was surprised by receiving a message that the citizen 
Schneider was in the village, and was coming to greet his old 
friend.  Old Jacob was in an ecstasy, for he longed to see his 
college acquaintance, and he hoped also that Schneider had come 
into that part of the country upon the marriage-business of your 
humble servant.  Of course Mary was summoned to give her best 
dinner, and wear her best frock; and her father made ready to 
receive the new State dignitary.

Schneider's carriage speedily rolled into the court-yard, and 
Schneider's CART followed, as a matter of course.  The ex-priest 
only entered the house; his companion remaining with the horses to 
dine in private.  Here was a most touching meeting between him and 
Jacob.  They talked over their old college pranks and successes; 
they capped Greek verses, and quoted ancient epigrams upon their 
tutors, who had been dead since the Seven Years' War.  Mary 
declared it was quite touching to listen to the merry friendly talk 
of these two old gentlemen.

After the conversation had continued for a time in this strain, 
Schneider drew up all of a sudden, and said quietly, that he had 
come on particular and unpleasant business--hinting about 
troublesome times, spies, evil reports, and so forth.  Then he 
called uncle Edward aside, and had with him a long and earnest 
conversation: so Jacob went out and talked with Schneider's FRIEND; 
they speedily became very intimate, for the ruffian detailed all 
the circumstances of his interview with me.  When he returned into 
the house, some time after this pleasing colloquy, he found the 
tone of the society strangely altered.  Edward Ancel, pale as a 
sheet, trembling, and crying for mercy; poor Mary weeping; and 
Schneider pacing 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 dangerous aristocrat; he holds 
communications with the enemy on the frontier; he is a possessor of 
great and ill-gotten wealth, of which he has plundered the 
Republic.  Do you know," said he, turning to Edward Ancel, "where 
the least of these crimes, or the mere suspicion of them, would 
lead you?"

Poor Edward sat trembling in his chair, and answered not a word.  
He knew full well how quickly, in this dreadful time, punishment 
followed suspicion; and, though guiltless of all treason with the 
enemy, perhaps he was aware that, in certain contracts with the 
Government, he had taken to himself a more than patriotic share of 
profit.

"Do you know," resumed Schneider, in a voice of thunder, "for what 
purpose I came hither, and by whom I am accompanied?  I am the 
administrator of the justice of the Republic.  The life of yourself 
and your family is in my hands: yonder man, who follows me, is the 
executor of the law; he has rid the nation of hundreds of wretches 
like yourself.  A single word from me, and your doom is sealed 
without hope, and your last hour is come.  Ho! Gregoire!" shouted 
he; "is all ready?"

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-yard; your name is on my list, and I have witnesses to prove 
your crime.  Have you a word in your defence?"

Not a word came; the old gentleman was dumb; but his daughter, who 
did not give way to his terror, spoke for him.

"You cannot, sir," said she, "although you say it, FEEL that my 
father is guilty; you would not have entered our house thus alone 
if you had thought it.  You threaten him in this manner because you 
have something to ask and to gain from us: what is it, citizen?--
tell us how much you value our lives, and what sum we are to pay 
for our ransom?"

"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, you can't want money of us," shrieked Edward; "we 
are the poorest people of the village: ruined, Monsieur Schneider, 
ruined in the cause of the Republic."

"Silence, father," said my brave Mary; "this man wants a PRICE: he 
comes, with his worthy friend yonder, to frighten us, not to kill 
us.  If we die, he cannot touch a sou of our money; it is 
confiscated to the State.  Tell us, sir, what is the price of our 
safety?"

Schneider smiled, and bowed with perfect politeness.

"Mademoiselle Marie," he said, "is perfectly correct in her 
surmise.  I do not want the life of this poor drivelling old man: 
my intentions are much more peaceable, be assured.  It rests 
entirely with this accomplished young lady (whose spirit I like, 
and whose ready wit I admire), whether the business between us 
shall be a matter of love or death.  I humbly offer myself, citizen 
Ancel, as a candidate for the hand of your charming daughter.  Her 
goodness, her beauty, and the large fortune which I know you intend 
to give her, would render her a desirable match for the proudest 
man in the republic, and, I am sure, would make me the happiest."

"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 was up),--"Pierre never could have 
forgotten himself and me so as to offer me to one like you.  You 
come here with a lie on your lips--a lie against my father, to 
swear his life away, against my dear cousin's honor and love.  It 
is useless now to deny it: father, I love Pierre Ancel; I will 
marry no other but him--no, though our last penny were paid to this 
man as the price of our freedom."

Schneider's only reply to this was a call to his 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 sentimental turn.

"You hear him," said Schneider; "Marie Ancel, you may decide the 
fate of your father.  I shall return in a few hours," concluded he, 
"and will then beg to know your decision."

The advocate of the rights of man then left the apartment, 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 
preparations.  The instinct of the poor girl had not failed her; 
she knew that Jacob was her only protector, if not of her life--
heaven bless him!--of her honor.  "Indeed," the old man said, in a 
stout voice, "this must never be, my dearest child--you must not 
marry this man.  If it be the will of Providence that we fall, we 
shall have at least the thought to console us that we die innocent.  
Any man in France at a time like this, would be a coward and 
traitor if he feared to meet the fate of the thousand brave and 
good who have preceded us."

"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, 
Mademoiselle," they said, "to allow no one to leave this apartment 
until the return of the citizen Schneider."

Alas! all hope of escape was impossible.  Mary became quite silent 
for a while; she would not speak to uncle Jacob; and, in reply to 
her father's eager questions, she only replied, coldly, that she 
would answer Schneider when he arrived.

The two dreadful hours passed 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 candor--your beauty.  As for 
the love, excuse me for saying that is a matter of total 
indifference.  I have no doubt, however, that it will come as soon 
as your feelings in favor of the young gentleman, your cousin, have 
lost their present fervor.  That engaging young man has, at 
present, another mistress--Glory.  He occupies, I believe, the 
distinguished post of corporal in a regiment which is about to 
march to--Perpignan, I believe."

It was, in fact, Monsieur Schneiders polite intention to banish 
me as far as possible from the place of my birth; and he had, 
accordingly, selected the Spanish frontier as the spot where I was 
to display my future military talents.

Mary gave no answer to this sneer: she seemed perfectly resigned 
and calm: she only said,--

"I must make, however, some conditions regarding our proposed 
marriage, which a gentleman of Monsieur Schneiders 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 likewise known and beloved.  I
should be ashamed, I confess, to wed you here; for our people would
wonder at the sudden marriage, and imply that it was only by
compulsion that I gave you my hand.  Let us, then, perform this
ceremony at Strasburg, before the public authorities of the city,
with the state and solemnity which befits the marriage of one of the
chief men of the Republic."

"Be it so, madam," he answered, and gallantly proceeded to embrace 
his bride.

Mary did not shrink from this ruffians 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-humor."

I believe uncle Edward in his heart was pleased at the notion of 
the marriage; he only cared for money and rank, and was little 
scrupulous as to the means of obtaining them.

The matter then was finally arranged; and presently, after 
Schneider had transacted the affairs which brought him into that 
part of the country, the happy bridal party set forward for 
Strasburg.  Uncles Jacob and Edward occupied the back seat of the 
old family carriage, and the young bride and bridegroom (he was 
nearly Jacobs age) were seated majestically in front.  Mary has 
often since talked to me of this dreadful journey.  She said she 
wondered at the scrupulous politeness of Schneider during the 
route; nay, that at another period she could have listened to and 
admired the singular talent of this man, his great learning, his 
fancy, and wit; but her mind was bent upon other things, and the 
poor girl firmly thought that her last day was come.

In the meantime, by a blessed chance, I had not ridden three 
leagues from Strasburg, when the officer of a passing troop of a 
cavalry regiment, looking at the beast on which I was mounted, was 
pleased to take a fancy to it, and ordered me, in an authoritative 
tone, to descend, and to give up my steed for the benefit of the 
Republic.  I represented to him, in vain, that I was a soldier, 
like himself, and the bearer of despatches to Paris.  "Fool!" he 
said; "do you think they would send despatches by a man who can 
ride at best but ten leagues a day?"  And the honest soldier was so 
wroth at my supposed duplicity, that he not only confiscated my 
horse, but my saddle, and the little portmanteau which contained 
the chief part of my worldly goods and treasure.  I had nothing 
for it but to dismount, and take my way on foot back again to 
Strasburg.  I arrived there in the evening, determining the next 
morning to make my case known to the citizen St. Just; and though I 
made my entry without a sou, I dont know what secret exultation I 
felt at again being able to return.

The ante-chamber of such a great man as St. Just was, in those 
days, too crowded for an unprotected boy to obtain an early 
audience; two days passed before I could obtain a sight of the 
friend of Robespierre.  On the third day, as I was still waiting 
for the interview, I heard a great bustle in the courtyard of the 
house, and looked out with many others at the spectacle.

A number of men and women, singing epithalamiums, and dressed in 
some absurd imitation of Roman costume, a troop of soldiers and 
gendarmerie, and an immense crowd of the badauds of Strasburg, were 
surrounding a carriage which then entered the court of the 
mayoralty.  In this carriage, great God! I saw my dear Mary, and 
Schneider by her side.  The truth instantly came upon me: the 
reason for Schneiders 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 murderer who 
stood before me.

The door of St. Justs private apartment opened, and he took his 
seat at the table of mayoralty just as Schneider and his cortge 
arrived before it.

Schneider then said that he came in before the authorities of the 
Republic to espouse the citoyenne Marie Ancel.

"Is she a minor?" asked St. Just.

"She is a minor, but her father is here to give her away."

"I am here," said uncle Edward, coming eagerly forward and bowing.  
"Edward Ancel, so please you, citizen representative.  The worthy 
citizen Schneider has done me the honor of marrying into my 
family."

"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 endeavored to prevent her from 
speaking.  Her father turned pale, and cried, "Stop, Mary, stop!  
For heavens sake, remember your poor old fathers 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 authorities of the district entirely under his 
orders.  He threatened my father with death if he refused to give 
up his daughter; and I, who knew that there was no chance of 
escape, except here before you, consented to become his wife.  My 
father I know to be innocent, for all his transactions with the 
State have passed through my hands.  Citizen representative, I 
demand to be freed from this marriage; and I charge Schneider as a 
traitor to the Republic, as a man who would have murdered an 
innocent citizen for the sake of private gain."

During the delivery of this little speech, uncle Jacob had been 
sobbing and panting like a broken-winded horse; and when Mary had 
done, he rushed up to her and kissed her, and held her tight in his 
arms.  "Bless thee, my child!" he cried, "for having had the 
courage to speak the truth, and shame thy old father and me, who 
dared not say a word."

"The girl amazes me," said Schneider, with a look of astonishment.  
"I never saw her, it is true, till yesterday; but I used no force: 
her father gave her to me with his free consent, and she yielded as 
gladly.  Speak, Edward Ancel, was it not so?"

"It was, indeed, by my free consent," said Edward, trembling.

"For shame, brother!" cried old Jacob.  "Sir, it was by Edwards 
free consent and my nieces; but the guillotine was in the court-
yard!  Question Schneiders famulus, the man Gregoire, him who 
reads The Sorrows 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 favor the interest of the migrs."

"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.

Here I came forward, and said that, three days since, I had 
received an order to quit Strasburg for Paris immediately after a 
conversation with Schneider, in which I had asked him his aid in 
promoting my marriage with my cousin, Mary Ancel; that he had heard 
from me full accounts regarding her fathers 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 of 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 examined into," said St. 
Just.  "The marriage cannot take place.  But if I had ratified it, 
Mary Ancel, what then would have been your course?"

Mary felt for a moment in her bosom, and said--"He would have died 
to-night--I would have stabbed him with this dagger."*


* 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.


The rain was beating down the streets, and yet they were thronged; 
all the world was hastening to the market-place, where the worthy 
Gregoire was about to perform some of the pleasant duties of his 
office.  On this occasion, it was not death that he was to inflict; 
he was only to expose a criminal who was to be sent on afterwards 
to Paris.  St. Just had ordered that Schneider should stand for six 
hours in the public place of Strasburg, and then be sent on to the 
capital to be dealt with as the authorities might think fit.

The people followed with execrations the villain to his place of 
punishment; and Gregoire grinned as he fixed up to the post the man 
whose orders he had obeyed so often--who had delivered over to 
disgrace and punishment so many who merited it not.

Schneider was left for several hours exposed to the mockery and 
insults of the mob; he was then, according to his sentence, marched 
on to Paris, where it is probable that he would have escaped death, 
but for his own fault.  He was left for some time in prison, quite 
unnoticed, perhaps forgotten: day by day fresh victims were carried 
to the scaffold, and yet the Alsacian tribune remained alive; at 
last, by the mediation of one of his friends, a long petition was 
presented to Robespierre, stating his services and his innocence, 
and demanding his freedom.  The reply to this was an order for his 
instant execution: the wretch died in the last days of Robespierres
reign.  His comrade, St. Just, followed him, as you know; but Edward
Ancel had been released before this, for the action of my brave Mary
had created a strong feeling in his favor.

"And Mary?" said I.

Here a stout and smiling old lady entered the Captains little 
room: she was leaning on the arm of a military-looking man of some 
forty years, and followed by a number of noisy, rosy children.

"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 fte 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. 
Colburns politest romances--so smooth and aristocratic does it 
sound--is no heroine, except of her own simple history; she is not 
a fashionable French Countess, nor even a victim of the Revolution.

She is a stout, sturdy girl of two-and-twenty, with a face beaming 
with good nature, and marked dreadfully by smallpox; and a pair of 
black eyes, which might have done some execution had they been 
placed in a smoother face.  Beatrices station in society is not 
very exalted; she is a servant of all-work: she will dress your 
wife, your dinner, your children; she does beefsteaks and plain 
work; she makes beds, blacks boots, and waits at table;--such, at 
least, were the offices which she performed in the fashionable 
establishment of the writer of this book: perhaps her history may 
not inaptly occupy a few pages of it.

"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 fathers time to supply so many little mouths with food; and how 
was a poor widowed woman to provide for them now, who had neither 
the strength nor the opportunity for labor?

"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.  Mother, work as she would, could 
not gain more than six; and it was a hard job, out of this, to put 
meat into six bellies, and clothing on six backs.  Old Aunt Bridget 
would scold, as she got her portion of black bread; and my little 
brothers used to cry if theirs did not come in time.  I, too, used 
to cry when I got my share; for mother kept only a little, little 
piece for herself, and said that she had dined in the fields,--God 
pardon her for the lie! and bless her, as I am sure He did; for, 
but for Him, no working man or woman could subsist upon such a 
wretched morsel as my dear mother took.

"I was a thin, ragged, barefooted girl, then, and sickly and weak 
for want of food; but I think I felt mothers 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 labored were hidden under the snow; so 
that when we wanted them most we had them least--warmth, work, or 
food.

"I knew that, do what I would, mother would never let me leave her, 
because I looked to my little brothers and my old cripple of an 
aunt; but still, bread was better for us than all my service; and 
when I left them the six would have a slice more; so I determined 
to bid good-by to nobody, but to go away, and look for work 
elsewhere.  One Sunday, when mother and the little ones were at 
church, I went in to Aunt Bridget, and said, Tell mother, when she 
comes back, that Beatrice is gone.  I spoke quite stoutly, as if I 
did not care about it.

"Gone! gone where? said she.  You aint going to leave me alone, 
you nasty thing; you aint going to the village to dance, you 
ragged, barefooted slut: youre all of a piece in this house--your 
mother, your brothers, and you.  I know youve got meat in the 
kitchen, and you only give me black bread; and here the old lady 
began to scream as if her heart would break; but we did not mind 
it, we were so used to it.

"'Aunt,' said I, 'I'm going, and took this very opportunity because 
you WERE alone: tell mother I am too old now to eat her bread, and 
do no work for it: I am going, please God, where work and bread can 
be found:' and so I kissed her: she was so astonished that she 
could not move or speak; and I walked away through the old room, 
and the little garden, God knows whither!

"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 village that day, 
asking everywhere for work in vain; and here, at bedtime, I found a 
bed and a supper!

"Here I lived very well for some months; my master was very good 
and kind to me; but, unluckily, too poor to give me any wages; so 
that I could save nothing to send to my poor mother.  My mistress 
used to scold; but I was used to that at home, from Aunt Bridget: 
and she beat me sometimes, but I did not mind it; for your hardy 
country girl is not like your tender town lasses, who cry if a pin 
pricks them, and give warning to their mistresses at the first hard 
word.  The only drawback to my comfort was, that I had no news of 
my mother; I could not write to her, nor could she have read my 
letter, if I had; so there I was, at only six leagues' distance 
from home, as far off as if I had been to Paris or to 'Merica.

"However, in a few months I grew so listless and homesick, that my 
mistress said she would keep me no longer; and though I went away 
as poor as I came, I was still too glad to go back to the old 
village again, and see dear mother, if it were but for a day.  I 
knew she would share her crust with me, as she had done for so long 
a time before; and hoped that, now, as I was taller and stronger, I 
might find work more easily in the neighborhood.

"You may fancy what a fte 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.

"Well, I got a little work here and a little there; but still I was 
a burden at home rather than a bread-winner; and, at the closing-in 
of the winter, was very glad to hear of a place at two leagues' 
distance, where work, they said, was to be had.  Off I set, one 
morning, to find it, but missed my way, somehow, until it was 
night-time before I arrived.  Night-time and snow again; it seemed 
as if all my journeys were to be made in this bitter weather.

"When I came to the farmer's door, his house was shut up, and his 
people all a-bed; I knocked for a long while in vain; at last he 
made his appearance at a window up stairs, and seemed so frightened,
and looked so angry that I suppose he took me for a thief.  I told
him how I had come for work.  'Who comes for work at such an hour?'
said he.  'Go home, you impudent baggage, and do not disturb honest
people out of their sleep.'  He banged the window to; and so I was
left alone to shift for myself as I might.  There was no shed, no
cow-house, where I could find a bed; so I got under a cart, on some
straw; it was no very warm berth.  I could not sleep for the cold:
and the hours passed so slowly, that it seemed as if I had been
there a week instead of a night; but still it was not so bad as the
first night when I left home, and when the good farmer found me.

"In the morning, before it was light, the farmer's people came out, 
and saw me crouching under the cart: they told me to get up; but I 
was so cold that I could not: at last the man himself came, and 
recognized me as the girl who had disturbed him the night before.  
When he heard my name, and the purpose for which I came, this good 
man took me into the house, and put me into one of the beds out of 
which his sons had just got; and, if I was cold before, you may be 
sure I was warm and comfortable now! such a bed as this I had never 
slept in, nor ever did I have such good milk-soup as he gave me out 
of his own breakfast.  Well, he agreed to hire me; and what do you 
think he gave me?--six sous a day! and let me sleep in the cow-
house besides: you may fancy how happy I was now, at the prospect 
of earning so much money.

"There was an old woman among the laborers who used to sell us 
soup: I got a cupful every day for a half-penny, with a bit of 
bread in it; and might eat as much beet-root besides as I liked; 
not a very wholesome meal, to be sure, but God took care that it 
should not disagree with me.

"So, every Saturday, when work was over, I had thirty sous to carry 
home to mother; and tired though I was, I walked merrily the two 
leagues to our village, to see her again.  On the road there was a 
great wood to pass through, and this frightened me; for if a thief 
should come and rob me of my whole week's earnings, what could a 
poor lone girl do to help herself?  But I found a remedy for this 
too, and no thieves ever came near me; I used to begin saying my 
prayers as I entered the forest, and never stopped until I was safe 
at home; and safe I always arrived, with my thirty sons in my 
pocket.  Ah! you may be sure, Sunday was a merry day for us all."


This is the whole of Beatrice's history which is worthy of 
publication; the rest of it only relates to her arrival in Paris, 
and the various masters and mistresses whom she there had the honor 
to serve.  As soon as she enters the capital the romance 
disappears, and the poor girl's sufferings and privations luckily 
vanish with it.  Beatrice has got now warm gowns, and stout shoes, 
and plenty of good food.  She has had her little brother from 
Picardy; clothed, fed, and educated him: that young gentleman is 
now a carpenter, and an honor to his profession.  Madame Merger is 
in easy circumstances, and receives, yearly, fifty francs from her 
daughter.  To crown all, Mademoiselle Beatrice herself is a funded 
proprietor, and consulted the writer of this biography as to the 
best method of laying out a capital of two hundred francs, which is 
the present amount of her fortune.

God bless her! she is richer than his Grace the Duke of Devonshire; 
and, I dare say, has, in her humble walk, been more virtuous and 
more happy than all the dukes in the realm.

It is, indeed, for the benefit of dukes and such great people (who, 
I make no doubt, have long since ordered copies of these Sketches), 
that poor little Beatrice's story has been indited.  Certain it is, 
that the young woman would never have been immortalized in this 
way, but for the good which her betters may derive from her 
example.  If your ladyship will but reflect a little, after 
boasting of the sums which you spend in charity; the beef and 
blankets which you dole out at Christmas; the poonah-painting which 
you execute for fancy fairs; the long, long sermons which you 
listen to at St. George's, the whole year through;--your ladyship, 
I say, will allow that, although perfectly meritorious in your 
line, as a patroness of the Church of England, of Almack's, and of 
the Lying-in Asylum, yours is but a paltry sphere of virtue, a 
pitiful attempt at benevolence, and that this honest servant-girl 
puts you to shame!  And you, my Lord Bishop: do you, out of your 
six sous a day, give away five to support your flock and family?  
Would you drop a single coach-horse (I do not say, A DINNER, for 
such a notion is monstrous, in one of your lordship's degree), to 
feed any one of the starving children of your lordship's mother--
the Church?

I pause for a reply.  His lordship took too much turtle and cold 
punch for dinner yesterday, and cannot speak just now: but we have, 
by this ingenious question, silenced him altogether: let the world 
wag as it will, and poor Christians and curates starve as they may, 
my lord's footmen must have their new liveries, and his horses 
their four feeds a day.


When we recollect his speech about the Catholics--when we remember 
his last charity sermon,--but I say nothing.  Here is a poor 
benighted superstitious creature, worshipping images, without a rag 
to her tail, who has as much faith, and humility, and charity as 
all the reverend bench.


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 apris par ce Monsieur, que vous vous portiez bien, 
ainsi que Monsieur, ayant su aussi que vous parliez de moi dans 
votre lettre cette nouvelle m'a fait bien plaisir Je profite de 
l'occasion pour vous faire passer ce petit billet o Je voudrais 
pouvoir m'enveloper pour aller vous voir et pour vous dire que Je 
suis encore sans place Je m'ennuye tojours de ne pas vous voir 
ainsi que Minette (Minette is a cat) qui semble m'interroger tour a 
tour et demander o vous tes.  Je vous envoye aussi la note du 
linge a blanchir--ah, Madame!  Je vais cesser de vous ecrire mais 
non de vous regretter."

Beatrice Merger.




CARICATURES AND LITHOGRAPHY IN PARIS.


Fifty years ago there lived at Munich a poor fellow, by name Aloys 
Senefelder, who was in so little repute as an author and artist, 
that printers and engravers refused to publish his works at their 
own charges, and so set him upon some plan for doing without their 
aid.  In the first place, Aloys invented a certain kind of ink, 
which would resist the action of the acid that is usually employed 
by engravers, and with this he made his experiments upon copper-
plates, as long as he could afford to purchase them.  He found that 
to write upon the plates backwards, after the manner of engravers, 
required much skill and many trials; and he thought that, were he 
to practise upon any other polished surface--a smooth stone, for 
instance, the least costly article imaginable--he might spare the 
expense of the copper until he had sufficient skill to use it.

One day, it is said, that Aloys was called upon to write--rather a 
humble composition for an author and artist--a washing-bill.  He 
had no paper at hand, and so he wrote out the bill with some of his 
newly-invented ink upon one of his Kelheim stones.  Some time 
afterwards he thought he would try and take an IMPRESSION of his 
washing-bill: he did, and succeeded.  Such is the story, which the 
reader most likely knows very well; and having alluded to the 
origin of the art, we shall not follow the stream through its 
windings and enlargement after it issued from the little parent 
rock, or fill our pages with the rest of the pedigree.  Senefelder 
invented Lithography.  His invention has not made so much noise and 
larum in the world as some others, which have an origin quite as 
humble and unromantic; but it is one to which we owe no small 
profit, and a great deal of pleasure; and, as such, we are bound to 
speak of it with all gratitude and respect.  The schoolmaster, who 
is now abroad, has taught us, in our youth, how the cultivation of 
art "emollit mores nec sinit esse"--(it is needless to finish the 
quotation); and Lithography has been, to our thinking, the very 
best ally that art ever had; the best friend of the artist, 
allowing him to produce rapidly multiplied and authentic copies of 
his own works (without trusting to the tedious and expensive 
assistance of the engraver); and the best friend to the people 
likewise, who have means of purchasing these cheap and beautiful 
productions, and thus having their ideas "mollified" and their 
manners "feros" no more.

With ourselves, among whom money is plenty, enterprise so great, 
and everything matter of commercial speculation, Lithography has 
not been so much practised as wood or steel engraving; which, by 
the aid of great original capital and spread of sale, are able more 
than to compete with the art of drawing on stone.  The two former 
may be called art done by MACHINERY.  We confess to a prejudice in 
favor of the honest work of HAND, in matters of art, and prefer the 
rough workmanship of the painter to the smooth copies of his 
performances which are produced, for the most part, on the wood-
block or the steel-plate.

The theory will possibly be objected to by many of our readers: the 
best proof in its favor, we think, is, that the state of art 
amongst the people in France and Germany, where publishers are not 
so wealthy or enterprising as with us,* and where Lithography is 
more practised, is infinitely higher than in England, and the 
appreciation more correct.  As draughtsmen, the French and German 
painters are incomparably superior to our own; and with art, as 
with any other commodity, the demand will be found pretty equal to 
the supply: with us, the general demand is for neatness, prettiness,
and what is called EFFECT in pictures, and these can be rendered
completely, nay, improved, by the engraver's conventional manner of
copying the artist's performances.  But to copy fine expression and
fine drawing, the engraver himself must be a fine artist; and let
anybody examine the host of picture-books which appear every
Christmas, and say whether, for the most part, painters or engravers
possess any artistic merit?  We boast, nevertheless, of some of the
best engravers and painters in Europe. Here, again, the supply is
accounted for by the demand; our highest class is richer than any
other aristocracy, quite as well instructed, and can judge and pay
for fine pictures and engravings. But these costly productions are
for the few, and not for the many, who have not yet certainly
arrived at properly appreciating fine art.


* 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.


Take the standard "Album" for instance--that unfortunate collection 
of deformed Zuleikas and Medoras (from the "Byron Beauties"), the 
Flowers, Gems, Souvenirs, Caskets of Loveliness, Beauty, as they 
way be called; glaring caricatures of flowers, singly, in groups, 
in flower-pots, or with hideous deformed little Cupids sporting 
among them; of what are called "mezzotinto," pencil-drawings, 
"poonah-paintings," and what not.  "The Album" is to be found 
invariably upon the round rosewood brass-inlaid drawing-room table 
of the middle classes, and with a couple of "Annuals" besides, 
which flank it on the same table, represents the art of the house; 
perhaps there is a portrait of the master of the house in the 
dining-room, grim-glancing from above the mantel-piece; and of the 
mistress over the piano up stairs; add to these some odious 
miniatures of the sons and daughters, on each side of the chimney-
glass; and here, commonly (we appeal to the reader if this is an 
overcharged picture), the collection ends.  The family goes to the 
Exhibition once a year, to the National Gallery once in ten years: 
to the former place they have an inducement to go; there are their 
own portraits, or the portraits of their friends, or the portraits 
of public characters; and you will see them infallibly wondering 
over No. 2645 in the catalogue, representing "The Portrait of a 
Lady," or of the "First Mayor of Little Pedlington since the 
passing of the Reform Bill;" or else bustling and squeezing among 
the miniatures, where lies the chief attraction of the Gallery.  
England has produced, owing to the effects of this class of 
admirers of art, two admirable, and five hundred very clever, 
portrait painters.  How many ARTISTS?  Let the reader count upon 
his five fingers, and see if, living at the present moment, he can 
name one for each.

If, from this examination of our own worthy middle classes, we look 
to the same class in France, what a difference do we find!  Humble 
caf's in country towns have their walls covered with pleasing 
picture papers, representing "Les Gloires de l'Arme Franaise," 
the "Seasons," the "Four Quarters of the World," "Cupid and 
Psyche," or some other allegory, landscape or history, rudely 
painted, as papers for walls usually are; but the figures are all 
tolerably well drawn; and the common taste, which has caused a 
demand for such things, is undeniable.  In Paris, the manner in 
which the cafs and houses of the restaurateurs are ornamented, is, 
of course, a thousand times richer, and nothing can be more 
beautiful, or more exquisitely finished and correct, than the 
designs which adorn many of them.  We are not prepared to say what 
sums were expended upon the painting of "Vry's" or "Vfour's," of 
the "Salle Musard," or of numberless other places of public resort 
in the capital.  There is many a shop-keeper whose sign is a very 
tolerable picture; and often have we stopped to admire (the reader 
will give us credit for having remained OUTSIDE) the excellent 
workmanship of the grapes and vine-leaves over the door of some 
very humble, dirty, inodorous shop of a marchand de vin.

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 sixime in the Pays Latin, has been decorated 
with prints of all kinds.  In the first, probably, with bad 
engravings on copper from the bad and tawdry pictures of the 
artists of the time of the Empire; in the latter, with gay 
caricatures of Granville or Monnier: military pieces, such as are 
dashed off by Raffet, Charlet, Vernet (one can hardly say which of 
the three designers has the greatest merit, or the most vigorous 
hand); or clever pictures from the crayon of the Deverias, the 
admirable Roqueplan, or Decamp.  We have named here, we believe, 
the principal lithographic artists in Paris; and those--as 
doubtless there are many--of our readers who have looked over 
Monsieur Aubert's portfolios, or gazed at that famous caricature-
shop window in the Rue de Coq, or are even acquainted with the 
exterior of Monsieur Delaporte's little emporium in the Burlington 
Arcade, need not be told how excellent the productions of all these 
artists are in their genre.  We get in these engravings the loisirs 
of men of genius, not the finikin performances of labored mediocrity,
as with us: all these artists are good painters, as well as good
designers; a design from them is worth a whole gross of Books of
Beauty; and if we might raise a humble supplication to the artists
in our own country of similar merit--to such men as Leslie, Maclise,
Herbert, Cattermole, and others--it would be, that they should,
after the example of their French brethren and of the English
landscape painters, take chalk in hand, produce their own copies of
their own sketches, and never more draw a single "Forsaken One,"
"Rejected One," "Dejected One" at the entreaty of any publisher or
for the pages of any Book of Beauty, Royalty, or Loveliness
whatever.

Can there be a more pleasing walk in the whole world than a stroll 
through the Gallery of the Louvre on a fte-day; not to look so 
much at the pictures as at the lookers-on?  Thousands of the poorer 
classes are there: mechanics in their Sunday clothes, smiling 
grisettes, smart dapper soldiers of the line, with bronzed 
wondering faces, marching together in little companies of six or 
seven, and stopping every now and then at Napoleon or Leonidas as 
they appear in proper vulgar heroics in the pictures of David or 
Gros.  The taste of these people will hardly be approved by the 
connoisseur, but they have A taste for art.  Can the same be said 
of our lower classes, who, if they are inclined to be sociable and 
amused in their holidays, have no place of resort but the tap-room 
or tea-garden, and no food for conversation except such as can be 
built upon the politics or the police reports of the last Sunday 
paper?  So much has Church and State puritanism done for us--so 
well has it succeeded in materializing and binding down to the 
earth the imagination of men, for which God has made another world 
(which certain statesmen take but too little into account)--that 
fair and beautiful world of heart, in which there CAN be nothing 
selfish or sordid, of which Dulness has forgotten the existence, 
and which Bigotry has endeavored to shut out from sight--


     "On a banni les dmons et les fes,
      Le raisonner tristement s'accrdite:
      On court, helas! aprs la vrit:
      Ah! croyez moi, l'erreur a son mrite!"


We are not putting in a plea here for demons and fairies, as 
Voltaire does in the above exquisite lines; nor about to expatiate 
on the beauties of error, for it has none; but the clank of steam-
engines, and the shouts of politicians, and the struggle for gain 
or bread, and the loud denunciations of stupid bigots, have 
wellnigh smothered poor Fancy among us.  We boast of our science, 
and vaunt our superior morality.  Does the latter exist?  In spite 
of all the forms which our policy has invented to secure it--in 
spite of all the preachers, all the meeting-houses, and all the 
legislative enactments--if any person will take upon himself the 
painful labor of purchasing and perusing some of the cheap 
periodical prints which form the people's library of amusement, and 
contain what may be presumed to be their standard in matters of 
imagination and fancy, he will see how false the claim is that we 
bring forward of superior morality.  The aristocracy who are so 
eager to maintain, were, of course, not the last to feel annoyance 
of the legislative restrictions on the Sabbath, and eagerly seized 
upon that happy invention for dissipating the gloom and ennui 
ordered by Act of Parliament to prevail on that day--the Sunday 
paper.  It might be read in a club-room, where the poor could not 
see how their betters ordained one thing for the vulgar, and 
another for themselves; or in an easy-chair, in the study, whither 
my lord retires every Sunday for his devotions.  It dealt in 
private scandal and ribaldry, only the more piquant for its pretty 
flimsy veil of double-entendre.  It was a fortune to the publisher, 
and it became a necessary to the reader, which he could not do 
without, any more than without his snuff-box, his opera-box, or his 
chasse after coffee.  The delightful novelty could not for any time 
be kept exclusively for the haut ton; and from my lord it descended 
to his valet or tradesmen, and from Grosvenor Square it spread all 
the town through; so that now the lower classes have their scandal 
and ribaldry organs, as well as their betters (the rogues, they 
WILL imitate them!) and as their tastes are somewhat coarser than 
my lord's, and their numbers a thousand to one, why of course the 
prints have increased, and the profligacy has been diffused in a 
ratio exactly proportionable to the demand, until the town is 
infested with such a number of monstrous publications of the kind 
as would have put Abb Dubois to the blush, or made Louis XV. cry 
shame.  Talk of English morality!--the worst licentiousness, in the 
worst period of the French monarchy, scarcely equalled the 
wickedness of this Sabbath-keeping country of ours.

The reader will be glad, at last, to come to the conclusion that 
we would fain draw from all these descriptions--why does this 
immorality exist?  Because the people MUST be amused, and have not 
been taught HOW; because the upper classes, frightened by stupid 
cant, or 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 
drawings: all we would urge is, that, in France, these prints are 
made because they are liked and appreciated; with us they are not 
made, because they are not liked and appreciated: and the more is 
the pity.  Nothing merely intellectual will be popular among us: we 
do not love beauty for beauty's sake, as Germans; or wit, for wit's 
sake, as the French: for abstract art we have no appreciation.  We 
admire H. B.'s caricatures, because they are the caricatures of 
well-known political characters, not because they are witty; and 
Boz, because he writes us good palpable stories (if we may use such 
a word to a story); and Madame Vestris, because she has the most 
beautifully shaped legs;--the ART of the designer, the writer, the 
actress (each admirable in its way,) is a very minor consideration; 
each might have ten times the wit, and would be quite unsuccessful 
without their substantial points of popularity.

In France such matters are far better managed, and the love of art 
is a thousand times more keen; and (from this feeling, surely) how 
much superiority is there in French SOCIETY over our own; how much 
better is social happiness understood; how much more manly equality 
is there between Frenchman and Frenchman, than between rich and 
poor in our own country, with all our superior wealth, instruction, 
and political freedom!  There is, amongst the humblest, a gayety, 
cheerfulness, politeness, and sobriety, to which, in England, no 
class can show a parallel: and these, be it remembered, are not 
only qualities for holidays, but for working-days too, and add to 
the enjoyment of human life as much as good clothes, good beef, or 
good wages.  If, to our freedom, we could but add a little of their 
happiness!--it is one, after all, of the cheapest commodities in 
the world, and in the power of every man (with means of gaining 
decent bread) who has the will or the skill to use it.

We are not going to trace the history of the rise and progress of 
art in France; our business, at present, is only to speak of one 
branch of art in that country--lithographic designs, and those 
chiefly of a humorous character.  A history of French caricature 
was published in Paris, two or three years back, illustrated by 
numerous copies of designs, from the time of Henry III. to our own 
day.  We can only speak of this work from memory, having been 
unable, in London, to procure the sight of a copy; but our 
impression, at the time we saw the collection, was as unfavorable 
as could possibly be: nothing could be more meagre than the wit, or 
poorer than the execution, of the whole set of drawings.  Under the 
Empire, art, as may be imagined, was at a very low ebb; and, aping 
the Government of the day, and catering to the national taste and 
vanity, it was a kind of tawdry caricature of the sublime; of which 
the pictures of David and Girodet, and almost the entire collection 
now at the Luxembourg Palace, will give pretty fair examples.  
Swollen, distorted, unnatural, the painting was something like the 
politics of those days; with force in it, nevertheless, and 
something of grandeur, that will exist in spite of taste, and is 
born of energetic will.  A man, disposed to write comparisons of 
characters, might, for instance, find some striking analogies 
between mountebank Murat, with his irresistible bravery and 
horsemanship, who was a kind of mixture of Dugueselin and Ducrow, 
and Mountebank David, a fierce, powerful painter and genius, whose 
idea of beauty and sublimity seemed to have been gained from the 
bloody melodramas on the Boulevard.  Both, however, were great in 
their way, and were worshipped as gods, in those heathen times of 
false belief and hero-worship.

As for poor caricature and freedom of the press, they, like the 
rightful princess in a fairy tale, with the merry fantastic dwarf, 
her attendant, were entirely in the power of the giant who ruled 
the land.  The Princess Press was so closely watched and guarded 
(with some little show, nevertheless, of respect for her rank), 
that she dared not utter a word of her own thoughts; and, for poor 
Caricature, he was gagged, and put out of the way altogether: 
imprisoned as completely as ever Asmodeus was in his phial.

How the Press and her attendant fared in succeeding reigns, is well 
known; their condition was little bettered by the downfall of 
Napoleon: with the accession of Charles X. they were more oppressed 
even than before--more than they could bear; for so hard were they 
pressed, that, as one has seen when sailors are working a capstan, 
back of a sudden the bars flew, knocking to the earth the men who 
were endeavoring to work them.  The Revolution came, and up sprung 
Caricature in France; all sorts of fierce epigrams were discharged 
at the flying monarch, and speedily were prepared, too, for the new 
one.

About this time there lived at Paris (if our information be 
correct) a certain M. Philipon, an indifferent artist (painting was 
his profession), a tolerable designer, and an admirable wit.  M. 
Philipon designed many caricatures himself, married the sister of 
an eminent publisher of prints (M. Aubert), and the two, gathering 
about them a body of wits and artists like themselves, set up 
journals of their own:--La Caricature, first published once a week; 
and the Charivari afterwards, a daily paper, in which a design also 
appears daily.

At first the caricatures inserted in the Charivari were chiefly 
political; and a most curious contest speedily commenced between 
the State and M. Philipon's little army in the Galrie Vro-Dodat.  
Half a dozen poor artists on the one side, and his Majesty Louis 
Philippe, his august family, and the numberless placemen and 
supporters of the monarchy, on the other; it was something like 
Thersites girding at Ajax, and piercing through the folds of the 
clypei septemplicis with the poisonous shafts of his scorn.  Our 
French Thersites was not always an honest opponent, it must be 
confessed; and many an attack was made upon the gigantic enemy, 
which was cowardly, false, and malignant.  But to see the monster 
writhing under the effects of the arrow--to see his uncouth fury in 
return, and the blind blows that he dealt at his diminutive 
opponent!--not one of these told in a hundred; when they DID tell, 
it may be imagined that they were fierce enough in all conscience, 
and served almost to annihilate the adversary.

To speak more plainly, and to drop the metaphor of giant and dwarf, 
the King of the French suffered so much, his Ministers were so 
mercilessly ridiculed, his family and his own remarkable figure 
drawn with such odious and grotesque resemblance, in fanciful 
attitudes, circumstances, and disguises, so ludicrously mean, and 
often so appropriate, that the King was obliged to descend into the 
lists and battle his ridiculous enemy in form.  Prosecutions, 
seizures, fines, regiments of furious legal officials, were first 
brought into play against poor M. Philipon and his little dauntless 
troop of malicious artists; some few were bribed out of his ranks; 
and if they did not, like Gilray in England, turn their weapons 
upon their old friends, at least laid down their arms, and would 
fight no more.  The bribes, fines, indictments, and loud-tongued 
avocats du roi made no impression; Philipon repaired the defeat of 
a fine by some fresh and furious attack upon his great enemy; if 
his epigrams were more covert, they were no less bitter; if he was 
beaten a dozen times before a jury, he had eighty or ninety 
victories to show in the same field of battle, and every victory 
and every defeat brought him new sympathy.  Every one who was at 
Paris a few years since must recollect the famous "poire" which was 
chalked upon all the walls of the city, and which bore so ludicrous 
a resemblance to Louis Philippe.  The poire became an object of 
prosecution, and M. Philipon appeared before a jury to answer for 
the crime of inciting to contempt against the King's person, by 
giving such a ludicrous version of his face.  Philipon, for 
defence, produced a sheet of paper, and drew a poire, a real large 
Burgundy pear: in the lower parts round and capacious, narrower 
near the stalk, and crowned with two or three careless leaves.  
"There was no treason in THAT," he said to the jury; "could any one 
object to such a harmless botanical representation?"  Then he drew 
a second pear, exactly like the former, except that one or two 
lines were scrawled in the midst of it, which bore somehow a 
ludicrous resemblance to the eyes, nose, and mouth of a celebrated 
personage; and, lastly, he drew the exact portrait of Louis 
Philippe; the well-known toupet, the ample whiskers and jowl were 
there, neither extenuated nor set down in malice.  "Can I help it, 
gentlemen of the jury, then," said he, "if his Majesty's face is 
like a pear?  Say yourselves, respectable citizens, is it, or is it 
not, like a pear?"  Such eloquence could not fail of its effect; 
the artist was acquitted, and La poire is immortal.

At last came the famous September laws: the freedom of the Press, 
which, from August, 1830, was to be "dsormais une vrit," was 
calmly strangled by the Monarch who had gained his crown for his 
supposed championship of it; by his Ministers, some of whom had 
been stout Republicans on paper but a few years before; and by the 
Chamber, which, such is the blessed constitution of French 
elections, will generally vote, unvote, revote in any way the 
Government wishes.  With a wondrous union, and happy forgetfulness 
of principle, monarch, ministers, and deputies issued the 
restriction laws; the Press was sent to prison; as for the poor 
dear Caricature, it was fairly murdered.  No more political satires 
appear now, and "through the eye, correct the heart;" no more 
poires ripen on the walls of the metropolis; Philipon's political 
occupation is gone.

But there is always food for satire; and the French caricaturists, 
being no longer allowed to hold up to ridicule and reprobation the 
King and the deputies, have found no lack of subjects for the 
pencil in the ridicules and rascalities of common life.  We have 
said that public decency is greater amongst the French than amongst 
us, which, to some of our readers, may appear paradoxical; but we 
shall not attempt to argue that, in private roguery, our neighbors 
are not our equals.  The procs of Gisquet, which has appeared 
lately in the papers, shows how deep the demoralization must be, 
and how a Government, based itself on dishonesty (a tyranny, that 
is, under the title and fiction of a democracy,) must practise and 
admit corruption in its own and in its agents' dealings with the 
nation.  Accordingly, of cheating contracts, of ministers dabbling 
with the funds, or extracting underhand profits for the granting of 
unjust privileges and monopolies,--of grasping, envious police 
restrictions, which destroy the freedom, and, with it, the 
integrity of commerce,--those who like to examine such details may 
find plenty in French history: the whole French finance system has 
been a swindle from the days of Luvois, or Law, down to the present 
time.  The Government swindles the public, and the small traders 
swindle their customers, on the authority and example of the 
superior powers.  Hence the art of roguery, under such high 
patronage, maintains in France a noble front of impudence, and a 
fine audacious openness, which it does not wear in our country.

Among the various characters of roguery which the French satirists 
have amused themselves by depicting, there is one of which the 
GREATNESS (using the word in the sense which Mr. Jonathan Wild gave 
to it) so far exceeds that of all others, embracing, as it does, 
all in turn, that it has come to be considered the type of roguery 
in general; and now, just as all the political squibs were made to 
come of old from the lips of Pasquin, all the reflections on the 
prevailing cant, knavery, quackery, humbug, are put into the mouth 
of Monsieur Robert Macaire.

A play was written, some twenty years since, called the "Auberge 
des Adrets," in which the characters of two robbers escaped from 
the galleys were introduced--Robert Macaire, the clever rogue above 
mentioned, and Bertrand, the stupid rogue, his friend, accomplice, 
butt, and scapegoat, on all occasions of danger.  It is needless to 
describe the play--a witless performance enough, of which the joke 
was Macaire's exaggerated style of conversation, a farrago of all 
sorts of high-flown sentiments such as the French love to indulge 
in--contrasted with his actions, which were philosophically 
unscrupulous, and his appearance, which was most picturesquely 
sordid.  The play had been acted, we believe, and forgotten, when a 
very clever actor, M. Frederick Lemaitre, took upon himself the 
performance of the character of Robert Macaire, and looked, spoke, 
and acted it to such admirable perfection, that the whole town rung 
with applauses of the performance, and the caricaturists delighted 
to copy his singular figure and costume.  M. Robert Macaire appears 
in a most picturesque green coat, with a variety of rents and 
patches, a pair of crimson pantaloons ornamented in the same way, 
enormous whiskers and ringlets, an enormous stock and shirt-frill, 
as dirty and ragged as stock and shirt-frill can be, the relic of a 
hat very gayly cocked over one eye, and a patch to take away 
somewhat from the brightness of the other--these are the principal 
pices of his costume--a snuff-box like a creaking warming-pan, a 
handkerchief hanging together by a miracle, and a switch of about 
the thickness of a man's thigh, formed the ornaments of this 
exquisite personage.  He is a compound of Fielding's "Blueskin" and 
Goldsmith's "Beau Tibbs."  He has the dirt and dandyism of the one, 
with the ferocity of the other: sometimes he is made to swindle, 
but where he can get a shilling more, M. Macaire will murder 
without scruple: he performs one and the other act (or any in the 
scale between them) with a similar bland imperturbability, and 
accompanies his actions with such philosophical remarks as may be 
expected from a person of his talents, his energies, his amiable 
life and character.

Bertrand is the simple recipient of Macaire's jokes, and makes 
vicarious atonement for his crimes, acting, in fact, the part which 
pantaloon performs in the pantomime, who is entirely under the 
fatal influence of clown.  He is quite as much a rogue as that 
gentleman, but he has not his genius and courage.  So, in 
pantomimes, (it may, doubtless, have been remarked by the reader,) 
clown always leaps first, pantaloon following after, more clumsily 
and timidly than his bold and accomplished friend and guide.  
Whatever blows are destined for clown, fall, by some means of ill-
luck, upon the pate of pantaloon: whenever the clown robs, the 
stolen articles are sure to be found in his companion's pocket; and 
thus exactly Robert Macaire and his companion Bertrand are made to 
go through the world; both swindlers, but the one more accomplished 
than the other.  Both robbing all the world, and Robert robbing his 
friend, and, in the event of danger, leaving him faithfully in the 
lurch.  There is, in the two characters, some grotesque good for 
the spectator--a kind of "Beggars' Opera" moral.

Ever since Robert, with his dandified rags and airs, his cane and 
snuff-box, and Bertrand with torn surtout and all-absorbing pocket, 
have appeared on the stage, they have been popular with the 
Parisians; and with these two types of clever and stupid knavery, 
M. Philipon and his companion Daumier have created a world of 
pleasant satire upon all the prevailing abuses of the day.

Almost the first figure that these audacious caricaturists dared to 
depict was a political one: in Macaire's red breeches and tattered 
coat appeared no less a personage than the King himself--the old 
Poire--in a country of humbugs and swindlers the facile princeps; 
fit to govern, as he is deeper than all the rogues in his 
dominions.  Bertrand was opposite to him, and having listened with 
delight and reverence to some tale of knavery truly royal, was 
exclaiming with a look and voice expressive of the most intense 
admiration, "AH VIEUX BLAGEUR! va!"--the word blague is 
untranslatable--it means FRENCH humbug as distinct from all other; 
and only those who know the value of an epigram in France, an 
epigram so wonderfully just, a little word so curiously 
comprehensive, can fancy the kind of rage and rapture with which it 
was received.  It was a blow that shook the whole dynasty.  
Thersites had there given such a wound to Ajax, as Hector in arms 
could scarcely have inflicted: a blow sufficient almost to create 
the madness to which the fabulous hero of Homer and Ovid fell a 
prey.

Not long, however, was French caricature allowed to attack 
personages so illustrious: the September laws came, and henceforth 
no more epigrams were launched against politics; but the 
caricaturists were compelled to confine their satire to subjects 
and characters that had nothing to do with the State.  The Duke of 
Orleans was no longer to figure in lithography as the fantastic 
Prince Rosolin; no longer were multitudes (in chalk) to shelter 
under the enormous shadow of M. d'Argout's nose: Marshal Loban's 
squirt was hung up in peace, and M. Thiers's pigmy figure and round 
spectacled face were no more to appear in print.*  Robert Macaire 
was driven out of the Chambers and the Palace--his remarks were a 
great deal too appropriate and too severe for the ears of the great 
men who congregated in those places.


* Almost all the principal public men had been most ludicrously 
caricatured in the Charivari: those mentioned above were usually 
depicted with the distinctive attributes mentioned by us.


The Chambers and the Palace were shut to him; but the rogue, driven 
out of his rogue's paradise, saw "that the world was all before him 
where to choose," and found no lack of opportunities for exercising 
his wit.  There was the Bar, with its roguish practitioners, 
rascally attorneys, stupid juries, and forsworn judges; there was 
the Bourse, with all its gambling, swindling, and hoaxing, its 
cheats and its dupes; the Medical Profession, and the quacks who 
ruled it, alternately; the Stage, and the cant that was prevalent 
there; the Fashion, and its thousand follies and extravagances.  
Robert Macaire had all these to exploiter.  Of all the empire, 
through all the ranks, professions, the lies, crimes, and 
absurdities of men, he may make sport at will; of all except of a 
certain class.  Like Bluebeard's wife, he may see everything, but 
is bidden TO BEWARE OF THE BLUE CHAMBER.  Robert is more wise than 
Bluebeard's wife, and knows that it would cost him his head to 
enter it.  Robert, therefore, keeps aloof for the moment.  Would 
there be any use in his martyrdom?  Bluebeard cannot live for ever; 
perhaps, even now, those are on their way (one sees a suspicious 
cloud of dust or two) that are to destroy him.

In the meantime Robert and his friend have been furnishing the 
designs that we have before us, and of which perhaps the reader 
will be edified by a brief description.  We are not, to be sure, to 
judge of the French nation by M. Macaire, any more than we are to 
judge of our own national morals in the last century by such a book 
as the "Beggars' Opera;" but upon the morals and the national 
manners, works of satire afford a world of light that one would in 
vain look for in regular books of history.  Doctor Smollett would 
have blushed to devote any considerable portion of his pages to a 
discussion of the acts and character of Mr. Jonathan Wild, such a 
figure being hardly admissible among the dignified personages who 
usually push all others out from the possession of the historical 
page; but a chapter of that gentleman's memoirs, as they are 
recorded in that exemplary recueil--the "Newgate Calendar;" nay, a 
canto of the great comic epic (involving many fables, and 
containing much exaggeration, but still having the seeds of truth) 
which the satirical poet of those days wrote in celebration of him--
we mean Fielding's "History of Jonathan Wild the Great"--does seem 
to us to give a more curious picture of the manners of those times 
than any recognized history of them.  At the close of his history 
of George II., Smollett condescends to give a short chapter on 
Literature and Manners.  He speaks of Glover's "Leonidas," Cibber's 
"Careless Husband," the poems of Mason, Gray, the two Whiteheads, 
"the nervous style, extensive erudition, and superior sense of a 
Corke; the delicate taste, the polished muse, and tender feeling of 
a Lyttelton."  "King," he says, "shone unrivalled in Roman 
eloquence, the female sex distinguished themselves by their taste 
and ingenuity.  Miss Carter rivalled the celebrated Dacier in 
learning and critical knowledge; Mrs. Lennox signalized herself by 
many successful efforts of genius both in poetry and prose; and 
Miss Reid excelled the celebrated Rosalba in portrait-painting, 
both in miniature and at large, in oil as well as in crayons.  The 
genius of Cervantes was transferred into the novels of Fielding, 
who painted the characters and ridiculed the follies of life with 
equal strength, humor, and propriety.  The field of history and 
biography was cultivated by many writers of ability, among whom we 
distinguish the copious Guthrie, the circumstantial Ralph, the 
laborious Carte, the learned and elegant Robertson, and above all, 
the ingenious, penetrating, and comprehensive Hume," &c. &c.  We 
will quote no more of the passage.  Could a man in the best humor 
sit down to write a graver satire?  Who cares for the tender muse 
of Lyttelton?  Who knows the signal efforts of Mrs. Lennox's 
genius?  Who has seen the admirable performances, in miniature and 
at large, in oil as well as in crayons, of Miss Reid?  Laborious 
Carte, and circumstantial Ralph, and copious Guthrie, where are 
they, their works, and their reputation?  Mrs. Lennox's name is 
just as clean wiped out of the list of worthies as if she had never 
been born; and Miss Reid, though she was once actual flesh and 
blood, "rival in miniature and at large" of the celebrated Rosalba, 
she is as if she had never been at all; her little farthing 
rushlight of a soul and reputation having burnt out, and left 
neither wick nor tallow.  Death, too, has overtaken copious Guthrie 
and circumstantial Ralph.  Only a few know whereabouts is the grave 
where lies laborious Carte; and yet, O wondrous power of genius!  
Fielding's men and women are alive, though History's are not.  The 
progenitors of circumstantial Ralph sent forth, after much labor 
and pains of making, educating, feeding, clothing, a real man 
child, a great palpable mass of flesh, bones, and blood (we say 
nothing about the spirit), which was to move through the world, 
ponderous, writing histories, and to die, having achieved the title 
of circumstantial Ralph; and lo! without any of the trouble that 
the parents of Ralph had undergone, alone perhaps in a watch or 
spunging-house, fuddled most likely, in the blandest, easiest, and 
most good-humored way in the world, Henry Fielding makes a number 
of men and women on so many sheets of paper, not only more amusing 
than Ralph or Miss Reid, but more like flesh and blood, and more 
alive now than they.  Is not Amelia preparing her husband's little 
supper?  Is not Miss Snapp chastely preventing the crime of Mr. 
Firebrand?  Is not Parson Adams in the midst of his family, and Mr. 
Wild taking his last bowl of punch with the Newgate Ordinary?  Is 
not every one of them a real substantial HAVE-been personage now--
more real than Reid or Ralph?  For our parts, we will not take upon 
ourselves to say that they do not exist somewhere else: that the 
actions attributed to them have not really taken place; certain we 
are that they are more worthy of credence than Ralph, who may or 
may not have been circumstantial; who may or may not even have 
existed, a point unworthy of disputation.  As for Miss Reid, we 
will take an affidavit that neither in miniature nor at large did 
she excel the celebrated Rosalba; and with regard to Mrs. Lennox, 
we consider her to be a mere figment, like Narcissa, Miss Tabitha 
Bramble, or any hero or heroine depicted by the historian of 
"Peregrine Pickle."

In like manner, after viewing nearly ninety portraits of Robert 
Macaire and his friend Bertrand, all strongly resembling each 
other, we are inclined to believe in them as historical personages, 
and to canvass gravely the circumstances of their lives.  Why 
should we not?  Have we not their portraits?  Are not they 
sufficient proofs?  If not, we must discredit Napoleon (as 
Archbishop Whately teaches), for about his figure and himself we 
have no more authentic testimony.

Let the reality of M. Robert Macaire and his friend M. Bertrand be 
granted, if but to gratify our own fondness for those exquisite 
characters: we find the worthy pair in the French capital, mingling 
with all grades of its society, pars magna in the intrigues, 
pleasures, perplexities, rogueries, speculations, which are carried 
on in Paris, as in our own chief city; for it need not be said that 
roguery is of no country nor clime, but finds [Greek text omitted], 
is a citizen of all countries where the quarters are good; among 
our merry neighbors it finds itself very much at its ease.

Not being endowed, then, with patrimonial wealth, but compelled to 
exercise their genius to obtain distinction, or even subsistence, 
we see Messrs. Bertrand and Macaire, by turns, adopting all trades 
and professions, and exercising each with their own peculiar 
ingenuity.  As public men, we have spoken already of their 
appearance in one or two important characters, and stated that the 
Government grew fairly jealous of them, excluding them from office, 
as the Whigs did Lord Brougham.  As private individuals, they are 
made to distinguish themselves as the founders of journals, 
socits en commandite (companies of which the members are 
irresponsible beyond the amount of their shares), and all sorts of 
commercial speculations, requiring intelligence and honesty on the 
part of the directors, confidence and liberal disbursements from 
the shareholders.

These are, among the French, so numerous, and have been of late 
years (in the shape of Newspaper Companies, Bitumen Companies, 
Galvanized-Iron Companies, Railroad Companies, &c.) pursued with 
such a blind FUROR and lust of gain, by that easily excited and 
imaginative people, that, as may be imagined, the satirist has 
found plenty of occasion for remark, and M. Macaire and his friend 
innumerable opportunities for exercising their talents.

We know nothing of M. Emile de Girardin, except that, in a duel, he 
shot the best man in France, Armaud Carrel; and in Girardin's favor 
it must be said, that he had no other alternative; but was right in 
provoking the duel, seeing that the whole Republican party had 
vowed his destruction, and that he fought and killed their 
champion, as it were.  We know nothing of M. Girardin's private 
character: but, as far as we can judge from the French public 
prints, he seems to be the most speculative of speculators, and, of 
course, a fair butt for the malice of the caricaturists.  His one 
great crime, in the eyes of the French Republicans and Republican 
newspaper proprietors, was, that Girardin set up a journal, as he 
called it, "franchement monarchique,"--a journal in the pay of the 
monarchy, that is,--and a journal that cost only forty francs by 
the year.  The National costs twice as much; the Charivari itself 
costs half as much again; and though all newspapers, of all 
parties, concurred in "snubbing" poor M. Girardin and his journal, 
the Republican prints, were by far the most bitter against him, 
thundering daily accusations and personalities; whether the abuse 
was well or ill founded, we know not.  Hence arose the duel with 
Carrel; after the termination of which, Girardin put by his pistol, 
and vowed, very properly, to assist in the shedding of no more 
blood.  Girardin had been the originator of numerous other 
speculations besides the journal: the capital of these, like that 
of the journal, was raised by shares, and the shareholders, by some 
fatality, have found themselves wofully in the lurch; while 
Girardin carries on the war gayly, is, or was, a member of the 
Chamber of Deputies, has money, goes to Court, and possesses a 
certain kind of reputation.  He invented, we believe, the 
"Institution Agronome de Coetbo,"* the "Physionotype," the "Journal 
des Connoissances Utiles," the "Pantheon Littraire," 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?


* It is not necessary to enter into descriptions of these various 
inventions.


Accordingly Messrs. Macaire and Bertrand are made the heroes of 
many speculations of the kind.  In almost the first print of our 
collection, Robert discourses to Bertrand of his projects.  
"Bertrand," says the disinterested admirer of talent and 
enterprise, "j'adore l'industrie.  Si tu veux nous crons une 
banque, mais l, une vraie banque: capital cent millions de 
millions, cent milliards de milliards d'actions.  Nous enfonons la 
banque de France, les banquiers, les banquistes; nous enfonons 
tout le monde."  "Oui," says Bertrand, very calm and stupid, "mais 
les gendarmes?"  "Que tu es bte, Bertrand: est-ce qu'on arrte un 
millionaire?"  Such is the key to M. Macaire's philosophy; and a 
wise creed too, as times go.

Acting on these principles, Robert appears soon after; he has not 
created a bank, but a journal.  He sits in a chair of state, and 
discourses to a shareholder.  Bertrand, calm and stupid as before, 
stands humbly behind.  "Sir," says the editor of La Blague, journal 
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 a, et je vous fais en
faveur de la loi UN ARTICLE MOUSSEUX."

Can such things be?  Is it possible that French journalists can so 
forget themselves?  The rogues! they should come to England and 
learn consistency.  The honesty of the Press in England is like the 
air we breathe, without it we die.  No, no! in France, the satire 
may do very well; but for England it is too monstrous.  Call the 
press stupid, call it vulgar, call it violent,--but honest it is.  
Who ever heard of a journal changing its politics?  O tempora!  O 
mores! as Robert Macaire says, this would be carrying the joke too 
far.

When he has done with newspapers, Robert Macaire begins to 
distinguish himself on 'Change,* as a creator of companies, a 
vender of shares, or a dabbler in foreign stock.  "Buy my coal-mine 
shares," shouts Robert; "gold mines, silver mines, diamond mines, 
'sont de la pot-bouille de la ratatouille en comparaison de ma 
houille.'"  "Look," says he, on another occasion, to a very timid, 
open-countenanced client, "you have a property to sell!  I have 
found the very man, a rich capitalist, a fellow whose bills are 
better than bank-notes."  His client sells; the bills are taken in 
payment, and signed by that respectable capitalist, Monsieur de 
Saint Bertrand.  At Plate 81, we find him inditing a circular 
letter to all the world, running thus: "Sir,--I regret to say that 
your application for shares in the Consolidated European 
Incombustible Blacking Association cannot be complied with, as all 
the shares of the C. E. I. B. A. were disposed of on the day they 
were issued.  I have, nevertheless, registered your name, and in 
case a second series should be put forth, I shall have the honor of 
immediately giving you notice.  I am, sir, yours, &c., the 
Director, Robert Macaire."--"Print 300,000 of these," he says to 
Bertrand, "and poison all France with them."  As usual, the stupid 
Bertrand remonstrates--"But we have not sold a single share; you 
have not a penny in your pocket, and"--"Bertrand, you are an ass; 
do as I bid you."


* We have given a description of a genteel Macaire in the account 
of M. de Bernard's novels.


Will this satire apply anywhere in England?  Have we any 
Consolidated European Blacking Associations amongst us?  Have we 
penniless directors issuing El Dorado prospectuses, and jockeying 
their shares through the market?  For information on this head, we 
must refer the reader to the newspapers; or if he be connected with 
the city, and acquainted with commercial men, he will be able to 
say whether ALL the persons whose names figure at the head of 
announcements of projected companies are as rich as Rothschild, or 
quite as honest as heart could desire.

When Macaire has sufficiently exploit the Bourse, whether as a 
gambler in the public funds or other companies, he sagely perceives 
that it is time to turn to some other profession, and, providing 
himself with a black gown, proposes blandly to Bertrand to set up--
a new religion.  "Mon ami," says the repentant sinner, "le temps de 
la commandite va passer, MAIS LES BADAUDS NE PASSERONT PAS."  (O 
rare sentence! it should be written in letters of gold!)  "OCCUPONS 
NOUS DE CE QUI EST TERNEL.  Si nous fassions une rligion?"  On 
which M. Bertrand remarks, "A religion! what the devil--a religion 
is not an easy thing to make."  But Macaire's receipt is easy.  
"Get a gown, take a shop," he says, "borrow some chairs, preach 
about Napoleon, or the discovery of America, or Molire--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 
ternel," 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 Pre Enfantin, 
or Chatel, or Lacordaire; but the words are curious, we think, for 
the very reason that the satire is so poor.  The fact is, there is 
no religion in Paris; even clever M. Philipon, who satirizes 
everything, and must know, therefore, some little about the subject 
which he ridicules, has nothing to say but, "Preach a sermon, and 
that makes a religion; anything will do."  If ANYTHING will do, it 
is clear that the religious commodity is not in much demand.  
Tartuffe had better things to say about hypocrisy in his time; but 
then Faith was alive; now, there is no satirizing religious cant in 
France, for its contrary, true religion, has disappeared altogether;
and having no substance, can cast no shadow.  If a satirist would
lash the religious hypocrites in ENGLAND now--the High Church
hypocrites, the Low Church hypocrites, the promiscuous Dissenting
hypocrites, the No Popery hypocrites--he would have ample subject
enough.  In France, the religious hypocrites went out with the
Bourbons.  Those who remain pious in that country (or, rather, we
should say, in the capital, for of that we speak,) are unaffectedly
so, for they have no worldly benefit to hope for from their piety;
the great majority have no religion at all, and do not scoff at the
few, for scoffing is the minority's weapon, and is passed always to
the weaker side, whatever that may be.  Thus H. B. caricatures the
Ministers: if by any accident that body of men should be dismissed
from their situations, and be succeeded by H. B.'s friends, the
Tories,--what must the poor artist do?  He must pine away and die,
if he be not converted; he cannot always be paying compliments; for
caricature has a spice of Goethe's Devil in it, and is "der Geist
der stets verneint," the Spirit that is always denying.

With one or two of the French writers and painters of caricatures, 
the King tried the experiment of bribery; which succeeded 
occasionally in buying off the enemy, and bringing him from the 
republican to the royal camp; but when there, the deserter was 
never of any use.  Figaro, when so treated, grew fat and 
desponding, and lost all his sprightly VERVE; and Nemesis became as 
gentle as a Quakeress.  But these instances of "ratting" were not 
many.  Some few poets were bought over; but, among men following 
the profession of the press, a change of politics is an 
infringement of the point of honor, and a man must FIGHT as well as 
apostatize.  A very curious table might be made, signalizing the 
difference of the moral standard between us and the French.  Why is 
the grossness and indelicacy, publicly permitted in England, 
unknown in France, where private morality is certainly at a lower 
ebb?  Why is the point of private honor now more rigidly maintained 
among the French?  Why is it, as it should be, a moral disgrace for 
a Frenchman to go into debt, and no disgrace for him to cheat his 
customer?  Why is there more honesty and less--more propriety and 
less?--and how are we to account for the particular vices or 
virtues which belong to each nation in its turn?

The above is the Reverend M. Macaire's solitary exploit as a 
spiritual swindler: as MATRE Macaire in the courts of law, as 
avocat, avou--in a humbler capacity even, as a prisoner at the 
bar, he distinguishes himself greatly, as may be imagined.  On one 
occasion we find the learned gentleman humanely visiting an 
unfortunate dtenu--no other person, in fact, than his friend M. 
Bertrand, who has fallen into some trouble, and is awaiting the 
sentence of the law.  He begins--

"Mon cher Bertrand, donne moi cent cus, je te fais acquitter 
d'emble."

"J'ai pas d'argent."

"H bien, donne moi cent francs."

"Pas le sou."

"Tu n'as pas dix francs?"

"Pas un liard."

"Alors donne moi tes bottes, je plaiderai la circonstance 
attnuante."

The manner in which Maitre Macaire soars from the cent cus (a high 
point already) to the sublime of the boots, is in the best comic 
style.  In another instance he pleads before a judge, and, 
mistaking his client, pleads for defendant, instead of plaintiff.  
"The infamy of the plaintiff's character, my LUDS, renders his 
testimony on such a charge as this wholly unavailing."  "M. 
Macaire, M. Macaire," cries the attorney, in a fright, "you are for 
the plaintiff!"  "This, my lords, is what the defendant WILL SAY.  
This is the line of defence which the opposite party intend to 
pursue; as if slanders like these could weigh with an enlightened 
jury, or injure the spotless reputation of my client!"  In this 
story and expedient M. Macaire has been indebted to the English 
bar.  If there be an occupation for the English satirist in the 
exposing of the cant and knavery of the pretenders to religion, 
what room is there for him to lash the infamies of the law!  On 
this point the French are babes in iniquity compared to us--a 
counsel prostituting himself for money is a matter with us so 
stale, that it is hardly food for satire: which, to be popular, 
must find some much more complicated and interesting knavery 
whereon to exercise its skill.

M. Macaire is more skilful in love than in law, and appears once or 
twice in a very amiable light while under the influence of the 
tender passion.  We find him at the head of one of those useful 
establishments unknown in our country--a Bureau de Mariage: half a 
dozen of such places are daily advertised in the journals: and "une 
veuve de trente ans ayant une fortune de deux cent mille francs," 
or "une demoiselle de quinze aus, jolie, d'une famille trs 
distingue, qui possde 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 
agrable,--des talens de socit"--and a place under Government, 
who makes a sacrifice of himself in a similar manner.  In our 
little historical gallery we find this philanthropic anti-Malthusian
at the head of an establishment of this kind, introducing a very
meek, simple-looking bachelor to some distinguished ladies of his
connoissance.  "Let me present you, sir, to Madame de St. Bertrand"
(it is our old friend), "veuve de la grande arme, et Mdlle Eloa de
Wormspire.  Ces dames brlent de l'envie de faire votre connoissance.
Je les ai invites  dner chez vous ce soir: vous nous menerez 
l'opra, et nous ferons une petite partie d'cart.  Tenez vous bien,
M. Gobard! ces dames ont des projets 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 arme"--is very happy.  "La grande arme" has 
been a father to more orphans, and a husband to more widows, than 
it ever made.  Mistresses of cafs, old governesses, keepers of 
boarding-houses, genteel beggars, and ladies of lower rank still, 
have this favorite pedigree.  They have all had malheurs (what kind 
it is needless to particularize), they are all connected with the 
grand homme, and their fathers were all colonels.  This title 
exactly answers to the "clergyman's daughter" in England--as, "A 
young lady, the daughter of a clergyman, is desirous to teach," &c.  
"A clergyman's widow receives into her house a few select," and so 
forth.  "Appeal to the benevolent.--By a series of unheard-of 
calamities, a young lady, daughter of a clergyman in the west of 
England, has been plunged," &c. &c.  The difference is curious, as 
indicating the standard of respectability.

The male beggar of fashion is not so well known among us as in 
Paris, where street-doors are open; six or eight families live in a 
house; and the gentleman who earns his livelihood by this 
profession can make half a dozen visits without the trouble of 
knocking from house to house, and the pain of being observed by the 
whole street, while the footman is examining him from the area.  
Some few may be seen in England about the inns of court, where the 
locality is favorable (where, however, the owners of the chambers 
are not proverbially soft of heart, so that the harvest must be 
poor); but Paris is full of such adventurers,--fat, smooth-tongued, 
and well dressed, with gloves and gilt-headed canes, who would be 
insulted almost by the offer of silver, and expect your gold as 
their right.  Among these, of course, our friend Robert plays his 
part; and an excellent engraving represents him, snuff-box in hand, 
advancing to an old gentleman, whom, by his poodle, his powdered 
head, and his drivelling, stupid look, one knows to be a Carlist of 
the old rgime.  "I beg pardon," says Robert; "is it really 
yourself to whom I have the honor of speaking?"--"It is."  "Do you 
take snuff?"--"I thank you."--"Sir, I have had misfortunes--I want 
assistance.  I am a Vendan of illustrious birth.  You know the 
family of Macairbec--we are of Brest.  My grandfather served the 
King in his galleys; my father and I belong, also, to the marine.  
Unfortunate suits at law have plunged us into difficulties, and I 
do not hesitate to ask you for the succor of ten francs."--"Sir, I 
never give to those I don't know."--"Right, sir, perfectly right.  
Perhaps you will have the kindness to LEND me ten francs?"

The adventures of Doctor Macaire need not be described, because the 
different degrees in quackery which are taken by that learned 
physician are all well known in England, where we have the 
advantage of many higher degrees in the science, which our 
neighbors know nothing about.  We have not Hahnemann, but we have 
his disciples; we have not Broussais, but we have the College of 
Health; and surely a dose of Morrison's pills is a sublimer 
discovery than a draught of hot water.  We had St. John Long, too--
where is his science?--and we are credibly informed that some 
important cures have been effected by the inspired dignitaries of 
"the church" in Newman Street which, if it continue to practise, 
will sadly interfere with the profits of the regular physicians, 
and where the miracles of the Abb of Paris are about to be acted 
over again.

In speaking of M. Macaire and his adventures, we have managed so 
entirely to convince ourselves of the reality of the personage, 
that we have quite forgotten to speak of Messrs. Philipon and 
Daumier, who are, the one the inventor, the other the designer, of 
the Macaire Picture Gallery.  As works of esprit, these drawings 
are not more remarkable than they are as works of art, and we never 
recollect to have seen a series of sketches possessing more 
extraordinary cleverness and variety.  The countenance and figure 
of Macaire and the dear stupid Bertrand are preserved, of course, 
with great fidelity throughout; but the admirable way in which each 
fresh character is conceived, the grotesque appropriateness of 
Robert's every successive attitude and gesticulation, and the 
variety of Bertrand's postures of invariable repose, the exquisite 
fitness of all the other characters, who act their little part and 
disappear from the scene, cannot be described on paper, or too 
highly lauded.  The figures are very carelessly drawn; but, if the 
reader can understand us, all the attitudes and limbs are perfectly 
CONCEIVED, and wonderfully natural and various.  After pondering 
over these drawings for some hours, as we have been while compiling 
this notice of them, we have grown to believe that the personages 
are real, and the scenes remain imprinted on the brain as if we had 
absolutely been present at their acting.  Perhaps the clever way in 
which the plates are colored, and the excellent effect which is put 
into each, may add to this illusion.  Now, in looking, for 
instance, at H. B.'s slim vapory figures, they have struck us as 
excellent LIKENESSES of men and women, but no more: the bodies want 
spirit, action, and individuality.  George Cruikshank, as a 
humorist, has quite as much genius, but he does not know the art of 
"effect" so well as Monsieur Daumier; and, if we might venture to 
give a word of advice to another humorous designer, whose works are 
extensively circulated--the illustrator of "Pickwick" and "Nicholas 
Nickleby,"--it would be to study well these caricatures of Monsieur 
Daumier; who, though he executes very carelessly, knows very well 
what he would express, indicates perfectly the attitude and 
identity of his figure, and is quite aware, beforehand, of the 
effect which he intends to produce.  The one we should fancy to be 
a practised artist, taking his ease; the other, a young one, 
somewhat bewildered: a very clever one, however, who, if he would 
think more, and exaggerate less, would add not a little to his 
reputation.

Having pursued, all through these remarks, the comparison between 
English art and French art, English and French humor, manners, and 
morals, perhaps we should endeavor, also, to write an analytical 
essay on English cant or humbug, as distinguished from French.  It 
might be shown that the latter was more picturesque and startling, 
the former more substantial and positive.  It has none of the 
poetic flights of the French genius, but advances steadily, and 
gains more ground in the end than its sprightlier compeer.  But 
such a discussion would carry us through the whole range of French 
and English history, and the reader has probably read quite enough 
of the subject in this and the foregoing pages.

We shall, therefore, say no more of French and English caricatures 
generally, or of Mr. Macaire's particular accomplishments and 
adventures.  They are far better understood by examining the 
original pictures, by which Philipon and Daumier have illustrated 
them, than by translations first into print and afterwards into 
English.  They form a very curious and instructive commentary upon 
the present state of society in Paris, and a hundred years hence, 
when the whole of this struggling, noisy, busy, merry race shall 
have exchanged their pleasures or occupations for a quiet coffin 
(and a tawdry lying epitaph) at Montmartre, or Pre la Chaise; when 
the follies here recorded shall have been superseded by new ones, 
and the fools now so active shall have given up the inheritance of 
the world to their children: the latter will, at least, have the 
advantage of knowing, intimately and exactly, the manners of life 
and being of their grandsires, and calling up, when they so choose 
it, our ghosts from the grave, to live, love, quarrel, swindle, 
suffer, and struggle on blindly as of yore.  And when the amused 
speculator shall have laughed sufficiently at the immensity of our 
follies, and the paltriness of our aims, smiled at our exploded 
superstitions, wondered how this man should be considered great, 
who is now clean forgotten (as copious Guthrie before mentioned); 
how this should have been thought a patriot who is but a knave 
spouting commonplace; or how that should have been dubbed a 
philosopher who is but a dull fool, blinking solemn, and pretending 
to see in the dark; when he shall have examined all these at his 
leisure, smiling in a pleasant contempt and good-humored 
superiority, and thanking heaven for his increased lights, he will 
shut the book, and be a fool as his fathers were before him.

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 lived, at Paris, a little fellow, who 
was the darling of all the wags of his acquaintance.  Nature 
seemed, in the formation of this little man, to have amused 
herself, by giving loose to half a hundred of her most comical 
caprices.  He had some wit and drollery of his own, which sometimes 
rendered his sallies very amusing; but, where his friends laughed 
with him once, they laughed at him a thousand times, for he had a 
fund of absurdity in himself that was more pleasant than all the 
wit in the world.  He was as proud as a peacock, as wicked as an 
ape, and as silly as a goose.  He did not possess one single grain 
of common sense; but, in revenge, his pretensions were enormous, 
his ignorance vast, and his credulity more extensive still.  From 
his youth upwards, he had read nothing but the new novels, and the 
verses in the almanacs, which helped him not a little in making, 
what he called, poetry of his own; for, of course, our little hero 
was a poet.  All the common usages of life, all the ways of the 
world, and all the customs of society, seemed to be quite unknown 
to him; add to these good qualities, a magnificent conceit, a 
cowardice inconceivable, and a face so irresistibly comic, that 
every one who first beheld it was compelled to burst out a-
laughing, and you will have some notion of this strange little 
gentleman.  He was very proud of his voice, and uttered all his 
sentences in the richest tragic tone.  He was little better than a 
dwarf; but he elevated his eyebrows, held up his neck, walked on 
the tips of his toes, and gave himself the airs of a giant.  He had 
a little pair of bandy legs, which seemed much too short to support 
anything like a human body; but, by the help of these crooked 
supporters, he thought he could dance like a Grace; and, indeed, 
fancied all the graces possible were to be found in his person.  
His goggle eyes were always rolling about wildly, as if in 
correspondence with the disorder of his little brain and his 
countenance thus wore an expression of perpetual wonder.  With such 
happy natural gifts, he not only fell into all traps that were laid 
for him, but seemed almost to go out of his way to seek them; 
although, to be sure, his friends did not give him much trouble in 
that search, for they prepared hoaxes for him incessantly.

One day the wags introduced him to a company of ladies, who, though 
not countesses and princesses exactly, took, nevertheless, those 
titles upon themselves for the nonce; and were all, for the same 
reason, violently smitten with Master Poinsinet's person.  One of 
them, the lady of the house, was especially tender; and, seating 
him by her side at supper, so plied him with smiles, ogles, and 
champagne, that our little hero grew crazed with ecstasy, and wild 
with love.  In the midst of his happiness, a cruel knock was heard 
below, accompanied by quick loud talking, swearing, and shuffling 
of feet: you would have thought a regiment was at the door.  "Oh 
heavens!" cried the marchioness, starting up, and giving to the 
hand of Poinsinet one parting squeeze; "fly--fly, my Poinsinet: 
'tis the colonel--my husband!"  At this, each gentleman of the 
party rose, and, drawing his rapier, vowed to cut his way through 
the colonel and all his mousquetaires, or die, if need be, by the 
side of Poinsinet.

The little fellow was obliged to lug out his sword too, and went 
shuddering down stairs, heartily repenting of his passion for 
marchionesses.  When the party arrived in the street, they found, 
sure enough, a dreadful company of mousquetaires, as they seemed, 
ready to oppose their passage.  Swords crossed,--torches blazed; 
and, with the most dreadful shouts and imprecations, the contending 
parties rushed upon one another; the friends of Poinsinet 
surrounding and supporting that little warrior, as the French 
knights did King Francis at Pavia, otherwise the poor fellow 
certainly would have fallen down in the gutter from fright.

But the combat was suddenly interrupted; for the neighbors, who 
knew nothing of the trick going on, and thought the brawl was real, 
had been screaming with all their might for the police, who began 
about this time to arrive.  Directly they appeared, friends and 
enemies of Poinsinet at once took to their heels; and, in THIS 
part of the transaction, at least, our hero himself showed that he 
was equal to the longest-legged grenadier that ever ran away.

When, at last, those little bandy legs of his had borne him safely 
to his lodgings, all Poinsinet's friends crowded round him, to 
congratulate him on his escape and his valor.

"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 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 engaged; although, corbleu, I 
DID FOR one or two of the fellows."  And after a little more of 
such conversation, during which he was fully persuaded that he had 
done for a dozen of the enemy at least, Poinsinet went to bed, his 
little person trembling with fright and pleasure; and he fell 
asleep, and dreamed of rescuing ladies, and destroying monsters, 
like a second Amadis de Gaul.

When he awoke in the morning, he found a party of his friends in 
his room: one was examining his coat and waistcoat; another was 
casting many curious glances at his inexpressibles.  "Look here!" 
said this gentleman, holding up the garment to the light; "one--
two--three gashes!  I am hanged if the cowards did not aim at 
Poinsinet's legs!  There are four holes in the sword arm of his 
coat, and seven have gone right through coat and waistcoat.  Good 
heaven! Poinsinet, have you had a surgeon to your wounds?"

"Wounds!" said the little man, springing up, "I don't know--that 
is, I hope--that is--O Lord! O Lord! I hope I'm not wounded!" and, 
after a proper examination, he discovered he was not.

"Thank heaven! thank heaven!" said one of the wags (who, indeed, 
during the slumbers of Poinsinet had been occupied in making these 
very holes through the garments of that individual), "if you have 
escaped, it is by a miracle.  Alas! alas! all your enemies have not 
been so lucky."

"How! is anybody wounded?" said Poinsinet.

"My dearest friend, prepare yourself; that unhappy man who came to 
revenge his menaced honor--that gallant officer--that injured 
husband, Colonel Count de Cartentierce--"

"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 terror, which would have melted a 
Visigoth to tears, or to laughter.  As soon as his terror and 
remorse had, in some degree, subsided, his comrades spoke to him of 
the necessity of making his escape; and, huddling on his clothes, 
and bidding them all a tender adieu, he set off, incontinently, 
without his breakfast, for England, America, or Russia, not knowing 
exactly which.

One of his companions agreed to accompany him on a part of this 
journey,--that is, as far as the barrier of St. Denis, which is, as 
everybody knows, on the high road to Dover; and there, being 
tolerably secure, they entered a tavern for breakfast; which meal, 
the last that he ever was to take, perhaps, in his native city, 
Poinsinet was just about to discuss, when, behold! a gentleman 
entered the apartment where Poinsinet and his friend were seated, 
and, drawing from his pocket a paper, with "AU NOM DU ROY" 
flourished on the top, read from it, or rather from Poinsinet's own 
figure, his exact signalement, laid his hand on his shoulder, and 
arrested him in the name of the King, and of the provost-marshal of 
Paris.  "I arrest you, sir," said he, gravely, "with regret; you 
have slain, with seventeen wounds, in single combat, Colonel Count 
de Cartentierce, one of his Majesty's household; and, as his 
murderer, you fall under the immediate authority of the provost-
marshal, and die without trial or benefit of clergy."

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 performed a 
most affecting scene of friendship.

"This may be of some service to you," whispered Durand to 
Poinsinet; and, after some further parley, he asked the officer 
when he was bound to deliver up his prisoner; and, hearing that he 
was not called upon to appear at the Marshalsea before six o'clock 
at night, Monsieur Durand prevailed upon Monsieur Antoine to wait 
until that hour, and in the meantime to allow his prisoner to walk 
about the town in his company.  This request was, with a little 
difficulty, granted; and poor Poinsinet begged to be carried to the 
houses of his various friends, and bid them farewell.  Some were 
aware of the trick that had been played upon him: others were not; 
but the poor little man's credulity was so great, that it was 
impossible to undeceive him; and he went from house to house 
bewailing his fate, and followed by the complaisant marshal's 
officer.

The news of his death he received with much more meekness than 
could have been expected; but what he could not reconcile to 
himself was, the idea of dissection afterwards.  "What can they 
want with me?" cried the poor wretch, in an unusual fit of candor.  
"I am very small and ugly; it would be different if I were a tall 
fine-looking fellow."  But he was given to understand that beauty 
made very little difference to the surgeons, who, on the contrary, 
would, on certain occasions, prefer a deformed man to a handsome 
one; for science was much advanced by the study of such 
monstrosities.  With this reason Poinsinet was obliged to be 
content; and so paid his rounds of visits, and repeated his dismal 
adieux.

The officer of the provost-marshal, however amusing Poinsinet's 
woes might have been, began, by this time, to grow very weary of 
them, and gave him more than one opportunity to escape.  He would 
stop at shop-windows, loiter round corners, and look up in the sky, 
but all in vain: Poinsinet would not escape, do what the other 
would.  At length, luckily, about dinner-time, the officer met one 
of Poinsinet's friends and his own: and the three agreed to dine at 
a tavern, as they had breakfasted; and here the officer, who vowed 
that he had been up for five weeks incessantly, fell suddenly 
asleep, in the profoundest fatigue; and Poinsinet was persuaded, 
after much hesitation on his part, to take leave of him.

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, 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 person in company had 
been decorated with a knot of lace and a gold key, such as 
chamberlains wear; he was introduced to Poinsinet as the Count de 
Truchses, chamberlain to the King of Prussia.  After dinner the 
conversation fell upon the Count's visit to Paris; when his 
Excellency, with a mysterious air, vowed that he had only come for 
pleasure.  "It is mighty well," said a third person, "and, of 
course, we can't cross-question your lordship too closely;" but at 
the same time it was hinted to Poinsinet that a person of such 
consequence did not travel for NOTHING, with which opinion 
Poinsinet solemnly agreed; and, indeed, it was borne out by a 
subsequent declaration of the Count, who condescended, at last, to 
tell the company, in confidence, that he HAD a mission, and a most 
important one--to find, namely, among the literary men of France, a 
governor for the Prince Royal of Prussia.  The company seemed 
astonished that the King had not made choice of Voltaire or 
D'Alembert, and mentioned a dozen other distinguished men who might 
be competent to this important duty; but the Count, as may be 
imagined, found objections to every one of them; and, at last, one 
of the guests said, that, if his Prussian Majesty was not 
particular as to age, he knew a person more fitted for the place 
than any other who could be found,--his honorable friend, M. 
Poinsinet, was the individual to whom he alluded.

"Good heavens!" cried the Count, "is it possible that the 
celebrated Poinsinet would take such a place?  I would give the 
world to see him?"  And you may fancy how Poinsinet simpered and 
blushed when the introduction immediately took place.

The Count protested to him that the King would be charmed to know 
him; and added, that one of his operas (for it must be told that 
our little friend was a vaudeville-maker by trade) had been acted 
seven-and-twenty times at the theatre at Potsdam.  His Excellency 
then detailed to him all the honors and privileges which the 
governor of the Prince Royal might expect; and all the guests 
encouraged the little man's vanity, by asking him for his 
protection and favor.  In a short time our hero grew so inflated 
with pride and vanity, that he was for patronizing the chamberlain 
himself, who proceeded to inform him that he was furnished with 
all the necessary powers by his sovereign, who had specially 
enjoined him to confer upon the future governor of his son the 
royal order of the Black Eagle.

Poinsinet, delighted, was ordered to kneel down; and the Count 
produced a large yellow ribbon, which he hung over his shoulder, 
and which was, he declared, the grand cordon of the order.  You 
must fancy Poinsinet's face, and excessive delight at this; for as 
for describing them, nobody can.  For four-and-twenty hours the 
happy chevalier paraded through Paris with this flaring yellow 
ribbon; and he was not undeceived until his friends had another 
trick in store for him.

He dined one day in the company of a man who understood a little of 
the noble art of conjuring, and performed some clever tricks on the 
cards.  Poinsinet's organ of wonder was enormous; he looked on with 
the gravity and awe of a child, and thought the man's tricks sheer 
miracles.  It wanted no more to set his companions to work.

"Who is this wonderful man?" said he to his neighbor.

"Why," said the other, mysteriously, "one hardly knows who he is; 
or, at least, one does not like to say to such an indiscreet fellow 
as you are."  Poinsinet at once swore to be secret.  "Well, then," 
said his friend, "you will hear that man--that wonderful man--
called by a name which is not his: his real name is Acosta: he is a 
Portuguese Jew, a Rosicrucian, and Cabalist of the first order, and 
compelled to leave Lisbon for fear of the Inquisition.  He performs 
here, as you see, some extraordinary things, occasionally; but the 
master of the house, who loves him excessively, would not, for the 
world, that his name should be made public."

"Ah, bah!" said Poinsinet, who affected the bel esprit; "you don't 
mean to say that you believe in magic, and cabalas, and such 
trash?"

"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 occasion, ventured to cut a single joke against 
poor Poinsinet; nor could he fancy that any trick was intended 
against him, for the demeanor of the society towards him was 
perfectly grave and respectful, and the conversation serious.  On a 
sudden, however, somebody exclaimed, "Where is Poinsinet?  Did any 
one see him leave the room?"

All the company exclaimed how singular the disappearance was; and 
Poinsinet himself, growing alarmed, turned round to his neighbor, 
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 neighbors, who 
agreed, at last, that he was a quiet, orderly personage, and had 
left the table early, being unwilling to drink too much.  Presently 
they ceased to talk about him, and resumed their conversation upon 
other matters.

At first it was very quiet and grave, but the master of the house 
brought back the talk to the subject of Poinsinet, and uttered all 
sorts of abuse concerning him.  He begged the gentleman, who had 
introduced such a little scamp into his house, to bring him thither 
no more: whereupon the other took up, warmly, Poinsinet's defence; 
declared that he was a man of the greatest merit, frequenting the 
best society, and remarkable for his talents as well as his 
virtues.

"Ah!" said Poinsinet to the magician, quite charmed at what he 
heard, "how ever shall I thank you, my dear sir, for thus showing 
me who my true friends are?"

The magician promised him still further favors in prospect; and 
told him to look out now, for he was about to throw all the company 
into a temporary fit of madness, which, no doubt, would be very 
amusing.

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 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 detestable 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 representation of 
Poinsinet the Invisible.  The servants and the whole company used 
to be put up to the trick; and Poinsinet, who believed in his 
invisibility as much as he did in his existence, went about with 
his friend and protector the magician.  People, of course, never 
pretended to see him, and would very often not talk of him at all 
for some time, but hold sober conversation about anything else in 
the world.  When dinner was served, of course there was no cover 
laid for Poinsinet, who carried about a little stool, on which he 
sat by the side of the magician, and always ate off his plate.  
Everybody was astonished at the magician's appetite and at the 
quantity of wine he drank; as for little Poinsinet, he never once 
suspected any trick, and had such a confidence in his magician, 
that, I do believe, if the latter had told him to fling himself out 
of window, he would have done so, without the slightest trepidation.

Among other mystifications in which the Portuguese enchanter 
plunged him, was one which used to afford always a good deal of 
amusement.  He informed Poinsinet, with great mystery, that HE WAS 
NOT HIMSELF; he was not, that is to say, that ugly, deformed little 
monster, called Poinsinet; but that his birth was most illustrious, 
and his real name Polycarte.  He was, in fact, the son of a 
celebrated magician; but other magicians, enemies of his father, 
had changed him in his cradle, altering his features into their 
present hideous shape, in order that a silly old fellow, called 
Poinsinet, might take him to be his own son, which little monster 
the magician had likewise spirited away.

The poor wretch was sadly cast down at this; for he tried to fancy 
that his person was agreeable to the ladies, of whom he was one of 
the warmest little admirers possible; and to console him somewhat, 
the magician told him that his real shape was exquisitely 
beautiful, and as soon as he should appear in it, all the beauties 
in Paris would be at his feet.  But how to regain it?  "Oh, for one 
minute of that beauty!" cried the little man; "what would he not 
give to appear under that enchanting form!"  The magician hereupon 
waved his stick over his head, pronounced some awful magical words, 
and twisted him round three times; at the third twist, the men in 
company seemed struck with astonishment and envy, the ladies 
clasped their hands, and some of them kissed his.  Everybody 
declared his beauty to be supernatural.

Poinsinet, enchanted, rushed to a glass.  "Fool!" said the 
magician; "do you suppose that YOU can see the change?  My power to 
render you invisible, beautiful, or ten times more hideous even 
than you are, extends only to others, not to you.  You may look a 
thousand times in the glass, and you will only see those deformed 
limbs and disgusting features with which devilish malice has 
disguised you."  Poor little Poinsinet looked, and came back in 
tears.  "But," resumed the magician,--"ha, ha, ha!--I know a way in 
which to disappoint the machinations of these fiendish magi."

"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 buzzard!  I have no reason to 
tell thee now that thy form is monstrous, that children cry, that 
cowards turn pale, that teeming matrons shudder to behold it.  It 
is not thy fault that thou art thus ungainly: but wherefore so 
blind? wherefore so conceited of thyself!  I tell thee, Poinsinet, 
that over every fresh instance of thy vanity the hostile enchanters 
rejoice and triumph.  As long as thou art blindly satisfied with 
thyself; as long as thou pretendest, in thy present odious shape, 
to win the love of aught above a negress; nay, further still, until 
thou hast learned to regard that face, as others do, with the most 
intolerable horror and disgust, to abuse it when thou seest it, to 
despise it, in short, and treat that miserable disguise in which 
the enchanters have wrapped thee with the strongest, hatred and 
scorn, so long art thou destined to wear it."

Such speeches as these, continually repeated, caused Poinsinet to 
be fully convinced of his ugliness; he used to go about in 
companies, and take every opportunity of inveighing against 
himself; he made verses and epigrams against himself; he talked 
about "that dwarf, Poinsinet;" "that buffoon, Poinsinet;" "that 
conceited, hump-backed Poinsinet;" and he would spend hours before 
the glass, abusing his own face as he saw it reflected there, and 
vowing that he grew handsomer at every fresh epithet that he 
uttered.

Of course the wags, from time to time, used to give him every 
possible encouragement, and declared that since this exercise, his 
person was amazingly improved.  The ladies, too, began to be so 
excessively fond of him, that the little fellow was obliged to 
caution them at last--for the good, as he said, of society; he 
recommended them to draw lots, for he could not gratify them all; 
but promised when his metamorphosis was complete, that the one 
chosen should become the happy Mrs. Poinsinet; or, to speak more 
correctly, Mrs. Polycarte.

I am sorry to say, however, that, on the score of gallantry, 
Poinsinet was never quite convinced of the hideousness of his 
appearance.  He had a number of adventures, accordingly, with the 
ladies, but strange to say, the husbands or fathers were always 
interrupting him.  On one occasion he was made to pass the night in 
a slipper-bath full of water; where, although he had all his 
clothes on, he declared that he nearly caught his death of cold.  
Another night, in revenge, the poor fellow


              --"dans le simple appareil
     D'une beaut, qu'on vient d'arracher au sommeil,"


spent a number of hours contemplating the beauty of the moon on the 
tiles.  These adventures are pretty numerous in the memoirs of M. 
Poinsinet; but the fact is, that people in France were a great deal 
more philosophical in those days than the English are now, so that 
Poinsinet's loves must be passed over, as not being to our taste.  
His magician was a great diver, and told Poinsinet the most 
wonderful tales of his two minutes' absence under water.  These two 
minutes, he said, lasted through a year, at least, which he spent 
in the company of a naiad, more beautiful than Venus, in a palace 
more splendid than even Versailles.  Fired by the description, 
Poinsinet used to dip, and dip, but he never was known to make any 
mermaid acquaintances, although he fully believed that one day he 
should find such.

The invisible joke was brought to an end by Poinsinet's too great 
reliance on it; for being, as we have said, of a very tender and 
sanguine disposition, he one day fell in love with a lady in whose 
company he dined, and whom he actually proposed to embrace; but the 
fair lady, in the hurry of the moment, forgot to act up to the 
joke; and instead of receiving Poinsinet's salute with calmness, 
grew indignant, called him an impudent little scoundrel, and lent 
him a sound box on the ear.  With this slap the invisibility of 
Poinsinet disappeared, the gnomes and genii left him, and he 
settled down into common life again, and was hoaxed only by vulgar 
means.

A vast number of pages might be filled with narratives of the 
tricks that were played upon him; but they resemble each other a 
good deal, as may be imagined, and the chief point remarkable about 
them is the wondrous faith of Poinsinet.  After being introduced to 
the Prussian ambassador at the Tuileries, he was presented to the 
Turkish envoy at the Place Vendme, who received him in state, 
surrounded by the officers of his establishment, all dressed in the 
smartest dresses that the wardrobe of the Opra Comique could 
furnish.

As the greatest honor that could be done to him, Poinsinet was 
invited to eat, and a tray was produced, on which was a delicate 
dish prepared in the Turkish manner.  This consisted of a 
reasonable quantity of mustard, salt, cinnamon and ginger, nutmegs 
and cloves, with a couple of tablespoonfuls of cayenne pepper, to 
give the whole a flavor; and Poinsinet's countenance may be 
imagined when he introduced into his mouth a quantity of this 
exquisite compound.

"The best of the joke was," says the author who records so many of 
the pitiless tricks practised upon poor Poinsinet, "that the little 
man used to laugh at them afterwards himself with perfect good 
humor; and lived in the daily hope that, from being the sufferer, 
he should become the agent in these hoaxes, and do to others as he 
had been done by."  Passing, therefore, one day, on the Pont Neuf, 
with a friend, who had been one of the greatest performers, the 
latter said to him, "Poinsinet, my good fellow, thou hast suffered 
enough, and thy sufferings have made thee so wise and cunning, that 
thou art worthy of entering among the initiated, and hoaxing in thy 
turn."  Poinsinet was charmed; he asked when he should be 
initiated, and how?  It was told him that a moment would suffice, 
and that the ceremony might be performed on the spot.  At this 
news, and according to order, Poinsinet flung himself straightway 
on his knees in the kennel; and the other, drawing his sword, 
solemnly initiated him into the sacred order of jokers.  From that 
day the little man believed himself received into the society; and 
to this having brought him, let us bid him a respectful adieu.




THE DEVIL'S WAGER.


It was the hour of the night when there be none stirring save 
churchyard ghosts--when all doors are closed except the gates of 
graves, and all eyes shut but the eyes of wicked men.

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 night,) that 
two beings went winging through the black clouds, and holding 
converse with each other.

Now the first was Mercurius, the messenger, not of gods (as the 
heathens feigned), but of daemons; and the second, with whom he held 
company, was the soul of Sir Roger de Rollo, the brave knight.  Sir 
Roger was Count of Chauchigny, in Champagne; Seigneur of Santerre, 
Villacerf and aultre lieux.  But the great die as well as the 
humble; and nothing remained of brave Rodger now, but his coffin 
and his deathless soul.

And Mercurius, in order to keep fast the soul, his companion, had 
bound him round the neck with his tail; which, when the soul was 
stubborn, he would draw so tight as to strangle him wellnigh, 
sticking into him the barbed point thereof; whereat the poor soul, 
Sir Rollo, would groan and roar lustily.

Now they two had come together from the gates of purgatorie, being 
bound to those regions of fire and flame where poor sinners fry and 
roast in saecula saeculorum.

"It is hard," said the poor Sir Rollo, as they went gliding through 
the clouds, "that I should thus be condemned for ever, and all for 
want of a single ave."

"How, Sir Soul?" said the daemon.  "You were on earth so wicked, 
that not one, or a million of aves, could suffice to keep from 
hell-flame a creature like thee; but cheer up and be merry; thou 
wilt be but a subject of our lord the Devil, as am I; and, perhaps, 
thou wilt be advanced to posts of honor, as am I also:" and to show 
his authoritie, he lashed with his tail the ribbes of the wretched 
Rollo.

"Nevertheless, sinner as I am, one more ave would have saved me; 
for my sister, who was Abbess of St. Mary of Chauchigny, did so 
prevail, by her prayer and good works, for my lost and wretched 
soul, that every day I felt the pains of purgatory decrease; the 
pitchforks which, on my first entry, had never ceased to vex and 
torment my poor carcass, were now not applied above once a week; 
the roasting had ceased, the boiling had discontinued; only a 
certain warmth was kept up, to remind me of my situation."

"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 yesterday, he who watched me in 
purgatory told me, that yet another prayer from my sister, and my 
bonds should be unloosed, and I, who am now a devil, should have 
been a blessed angel."

"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 Mercurius 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."

"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 rarae aves," replied Mercurius, wagging his tail 
right waggishly; "and, what is more, I will lay thee any wager that 
not one of these will say a prayer to save thee."

"I would wager willingly," responded he of Chauchigny; "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 was true.  The soul, on looking down, perceived the tall 
towers, the courts, the stables, and the fair gardens of the 
castle.  Although it was past midnight, there was a blaze of light 
in the banqueting-hall, and a lamp burning in the open window of 
the Lady Matilda.

"With whom shall we begin?" said the daemon: "with the baron or the 
lady?"

"With the lady, if you will."

"Be it so; her window is open, let us enter."

So they descended, and entered silently into Matilda's chamber.


The young lady's eyes were fixed so intently on a little clock, 
that it was no wonder that she did not perceive the entrance of her 
two visitors.  Her fair cheek rested on her white arm, and her 
white arm on the cushion of a great chair in which she sat, 
pleasantly supported by sweet thoughts and swan's down; a lute was 
at her side, and a book of prayers lay under the table (for piety 
is always modest).  Like the amorous Alexander, she sighed and 
looked (at the clock)--and sighed for ten minutes or more, when she 
softly breathed the word "Edward!"

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 apparition of her uncle 
(for a year's sojourn in purgatory had not increased the comeliness 
of his appearance), she started, screamed, and of course fainted.

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 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 Maria."

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 devotions, and began--

"Ave Maria grati 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 chant mine ev'ning hymn.

     "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 impudent 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 listened, and 
the page sung away till morning.


"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 Mathilde's brother; and, in 
consequence, will be hanged.  In the love of the lady he will be 
succeeded by a gardener, who will be replaced by a monk, who will 
give way to an ostler, who will be deposed by a Jew pedler, who 
shall, finally, yield to a noble earl, the future husband of the 
fair Mathilde.  So that, you see, instead of having one poor soul 
a-frying, we may now look forward to a goodly harvest for our lord 
the Devil."

The soul of the Baron began to think that his companion knew too 
much for one who would make fair bets; but there was no help for 
it; he would not, and he could not, cry off: and he prayed inwardly 
that the brother might be found more pious than the sister.

But there seemed little chance of this.  As they crossed the court, 
lackeys, with smoking dishes and, full jugs, passed and repassed 
continually, although it was long past midnight.  On entering the 
hall, they found Sir Randal at the head of a vast table, surrounded 
by a fiercer and more motley collection of individuals than had 
congregated there even in the time of Sir Rollo.  The lord of the 
castle had signified that "it was his royal pleasure to be drunk," 
and the gentlemen of his train had obsequiously followed their 
master.  Mercurius was delighted with the scene, and relaxed his 
usually rigid countenance into a bland and benevolent smile, which 
became him wonderfully.

The entrance of Sir Roger, who had been dead about a year, and a 
person with hoofs, horns, and a tail, rather disturbed the hilarity 
of the company.  Sir Randal dropped his cup of wine; and Father 
Peter, the confessor, incontinently paused in the midst of a 
profane song, with which he was amusing the society.

"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 honor to act as his counsellor 
and attendant."

"Nephew," said Sir Roger, "the daemon saith justly; I am come on a 
trifling affair, in which thy service is essential."

"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 Mercurius was 
playing all sorts of antics in the hall; and, by his wit and fun, 
became so popular with this godless crew, that they lost all the 
fear which his first appearance had given them.  The friar was 
wonderfully taken with him, and used his utmost eloquence and 
endeavors to convert the devil; the knights stopped drinking to 
listen to the argument; the men-at-arms forbore brawling; and the 
wicked little pages crowded round the two strange disputants, to 
hear their edifying discourse.  The ghostly man, however, had 
little chance in the controversy, and certainly little learning to 
carry it on.  Sir Randal interrupted him.  "Father Peter," said he, 
"our kinsman is condemned for ever, for want of a single ave: wilt 
thou say it for him?"  "Willingly, my lord," said the monk, "with 
my book;" and accordingly he produced his missal to read, without 
which aid it appeared that the holy father could not manage the 
desired prayer.  But the crafty Mercurius had, by his devilish art, 
inserted a song in the place of the ave, so that Father Peter, 
instead of chanting an hymn, sang the following irreverent ditty--


     "Some love the matin-chimes, which toll
        The hour of prayer to sinner:
      But better far's the mid-day bell,
        Which speaks the hour of dinner;
      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 ale-house bench,
        Whereon I sit so jolly;
      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.

"Au revoir, gentlemen," said the devil Mercurius; and once more 
fixed his tail round the neck of his disappointed companion.

The spirit of poor Rollo was sadly cast down; the devil, on the 
contrary, was in high good humor.  He wagged his tail with the most 
satisfied air in the world, and cut a hundred jokes at the expense 
of his poor associate.  On they sped, cleaving swiftly through the 
cold night winds, frightening the birds that were roosting in the 
woods, and the owls that were watching in the towers.

In the twinkling of an eye, as it is known, devils can fly hundreds 
of miles: so that almost the same beat of the clock which left 
these two in Champagne, found them hovering over Paris.  They 
dropped into the court of the Lazarist Convent, and winded their 
way, through passage and cloister, until they reached the door of 
the prior's cell.

Now the prior, Rollo's brother, was a wicked and malignant 
sorcerer; his time was spent in conjuring devils and doing wicked 
deeds, instead of fasting, scourging, and singing holy psalms: this 
Mercurius knew; and he, therefore, was fully at ease as to the 
final result of his wager with poor Sir Roger.

"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."

"Why, thou false and traitorous devil!" said the enraged 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 believe 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 journey."

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 calculations: he 
stood in the middle of a circle of skulls, with no garment except 
his long white beard, which reached to his knees; he was waving a 
silver rod, and muttering imprecations in some horrible tongue.

But Sir Rollo came forward and interrupted his incantation.  "I 
am," said he, "the shade of thy brother Roger de Rollo; and have 
come, from pure brotherly love, to warn thee of thy fate."

"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 compact with the fiend.  'Go,' said he, 'to thy 
miserable brother, and tell him there is but one way by which he 
may escape from paying the awful forfeit of his bond.'"

"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 instant 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 behind, 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: BUT THIS 
TIME THE DEVIL HAD NOT HIS TAIL ROUND HIS NECK.  "I will let thee 
off thy bet," said he to the daemon; for he could afford, now, to be 
generous.

"I believe, my lord," said the daemon, politely, "that our ways 
separate here."  Sir Roger sailed gayly upwards: while Mercurius 
having bound the miserable monk faster than ever, he sunk downwards 
to earth, and perhaps lower.  Ignatius was heard roaring and 
screaming as the devil dashed him against the iron spikes and 
buttresses of the church.


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 
considerably, and it is not a little curious to contrast the old 
modes with the new.  Absurd as was the literary dandyism of those 
days, it is not a whit less absurd now: only the manner is changed, 
and our versatile Frenchmen have passed from one caricature to 
another.

The revolution may be called a caricature of freedom, as the empire 
was of glory; and what they borrow from foreigners undergoes the 
same process.  They take top-boots and mackintoshes from across the 
water, and caricature our fashions; they read a little, very 
little, Shakespeare, and caricature our poetry: and while in 
David's time art and religion were only a caricature of Heathenism, 
now, on the contrary, these two commodities are imported from 
Germany; and distorted caricatures originally, are still farther 
distorted on passing the frontier.

I trust in heaven that German art and religion will take no hold in 
our country (where there is a fund of roast-beef that will expel 
any such humbug in the end); but these sprightly Frenchmen have 
relished the mystical doctrines mightily; and having watched the 
Germans, with their sanctified looks, and quaint imitations of the 
old times, and mysterious transcendental talk, are aping many of 
their fashions; as well and solemnly as they can: not very 
solemnly, God wot; for I think one should always prepare to grin 
when a Frenchman looks particularly grave, being sure that there
is something false and ridiculous lurking under the owl-like 
solemnity.

When last in Paris, we were in the midst of what was called a 
Catholic reaction.  Artists talked of faith in poems and pictures; 
churches were built here and there; old missals were copied and 
purchased; and numberless portraits of saints, with as much gilding 
about them as ever was used in the fifteenth century, appeared in 
churches, ladies' boudoirs, and picture-shops.  One or two 
fashionable preachers rose, and were eagerly followed; the very 
youth of the schools gave up their pipes and billiards for some 
time, and flocked in crowds to Notre Dame, to sit under the feet of 
Lacordaire.  I went to visit the Church of Notre Dame de Lorette 
yesterday, which was finished in the heat of this Catholic rage, 
and was not a little struck by the similarity of the place to the 
worship celebrated in it, and the admirable manner in which the 
architect has caused his work to express the public feeling of the 
moment.  It is a pretty little bijou of a church: it is supported 
by sham marble pillars; it has a gaudy ceiling of blue and gold, 
which will look very well for some time; and is filled with gaudy 
pictures and carvings, in the very pink of the mode.  The 
congregation did not offer a bad illustration of the present state 
of Catholic reaction.  Two or three stray people were at prayers; 
there was no service; a few countrymen and idlers were staring 
about at the pictures; and the Swiss, the paid guardian of the 
place, was comfortably and appropriately asleep on his bench at the 
door.  I am inclined to think the famous reaction is over: the 
students have taken to their Sunday pipes and billiards again; and 
one or two cafs have been established, within the last year, that 
are ten times handsomer than Notre Dame de Lorette.

However, if the immortal Grres and the German mystics have had 
their day, there is the immortal Gthe, and the Pantheists; and I 
incline to think that the fashion has set very strongly in their 
favor.  Voltaire and the Encyclopaedians are voted, now, barbares, 
and there is no term of reprobation strong enough for heartless 
Humes and Helvetiuses, who lived but to destroy, and who only 
thought to doubt.  Wretched as Voltaire's sneers and puns are, I 
think there is something more manly and earnest even in them, than 
in the present muddy French transcendentalism.  Pantheism is the 
word now; one and all have begun to prouver 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 Dbats, 
has divine intimations; and there is scarce a beggarly, beardless 
scribbler of poems and prose, but tells you, in his preface, of the 
saintet of the sacerdoce littraire; or a dirty student, sucking 
tobacco and beer, and reeling home with a grisette from the 
chaumire, who is not convinced of the necessity of a new 
"Messianism," and will hiccup, to such as will listen, chapters of 
his own drunken Apocalypse.  Surely, the negatives of the old days 
were far less dangerous than the assertions of the present; and you 
may fancy what a religion that must be, which has such high 
priests.

There is no reason to trouble the reader with details of the lives 
of many of these prophets and expounders of new revelations.  
Madame Sand, for instance, I do not know personally, and can only 
speak of her from report.  True or false, the history, at any rate, 
is not very edifying; and so may be passed over: but, as a certain 
great philosopher told us, in very humble and simple words, that we 
are not to expect to gather grapes from thorns, or figs from 
thistles, we may, at least, demand, in all persons assuming the 
character of moralist or philosopher--order, soberness, and 
regularity of life; for we are apt to distrust the intellect that 
we fancy can be swayed by circumstance or passion; and we know how 
circumstance and passion WILL sway the intellect: how mortified 
vanity will form excuses for itself; and how temper turns angrily 
upon conscience, that reproves it.  How often have we called our 
judge our enemy, because he has given sentence against us!--How 
often have we called the right wrong, because the right condemns 
us!  And in the lives of many of the bitter foes of the Christian 
doctrine, can we find no personal reason for their hostility?  The 
men in Athens said it was out of regard for religion that they 
murdered Socrates; but we have had time, since then, to reconsider 
the verdict; and Socrates' character is pretty pure now, in spite 
of the sentence and the jury of those days.

The Parisian philosophers will attempt to explain to you the 
changes through which Madame Sand's mind has passed,--the 
initiatory trials, labors, and sufferings which she has had to go 
through,--before she reached her present happy state of mental 
illumination.  She teaches her wisdom in parables, that are, 
mostly, a couple of volumes long; and began, first, by an eloquent 
attack on marriage, in the charming novel of "Indiana."  "Pity," 
cried she, "for the poor woman who, united to a being whose brute 
force makes him her superior, should venture to break the bondage 
which is imposed on her, and allow her heart to be free."

In support of this claim of pity, she writes two volumes of the 
most exquisite prose.  What a tender, suffering creature is 
Indiana; how little her husband appreciates that gentleness which 
he is crushing by his tyranny and brutal scorn; how natural it is 
that, in the absence of his sympathy, she, poor clinging confiding 
creature, should seek elsewhere for shelter; how cautious should we 
be, to call criminal--to visit with too heavy a censure--an act 
which is one of the natural impulses of a tender heart, that seeks 
but for a worthy object of love.  But why attempt to tell the tale 
of beautiful Indiana?  Madame Sand has written it so well, that not 
the hardest-hearted husband in Christendom can fail to be touched 
by her sorrows, though he may refuse to listen to her argument.  
Let us grant, for argument's sake, that the laws of marriage, 
especially the French laws of marriage, press very cruelly upon 
unfortunate women.

But if one wants to have a question of this, or any nature, 
honestly argued, it is, better, surely, to apply to an indifferent 
person for an umpire.  For instance, the stealing of pocket-
handkerchiefs or snuff-boxes may or may not be vicious; but if we, 
who have not the wit, or will not take the trouble to decide the 
question ourselves, want to hear the real rights of the matter, we 
should not, surely, apply to a pickpocket to know what he thought 
on the point.  It might naturally be presumed that he would be 
rather a prejudiced person--particularly as his reasoning, if 
successful, might get him OUT OF GAOL.  This is a homely 
illustration, no doubt; all we would urge by it is, that Madame 
Sand having, according to the French newspapers, had a stern 
husband, and also having, according to the newspapers, sought 
"sympathy" elsewhere, her arguments may be considered to be 
somewhat partial, and received with some little caution.

And tell us who have been the social reformers?--the haters, that 
is, of the present system, according to which we live, love, marry, 
have children, educate them, and endow them--ARE THEY PURE 
THEMSELVES?  I do believe not one; and directly a man begins to 
quarrel with the world and its ways, and to lift up, as he calls 
it, the voice of his despair, and preach passionately to mankind 
about this tyranny of faith, customs, laws; if we examine what the 
personal character of the preacher is, we begin pretty clearly to 
understand the value of the doctrine.  Any one can see why Rousseau 
should be such a whimpering reformer, and Byron such a free and 
easy misanthropist, and why our accomplished Madame Sand, who has a 
genius and eloquence inferior to neither, should take the present 
condition of mankind (French-kind) so much to heart, and labor so 
hotly to set it right.

After "Indiana" (which, we presume, contains the lady's notions 
upon wives and husbands) came "Valentine," which may be said to 
exhibit her doctrine, in regard of young men and maidens, to whom 
the author would accord, as we fancy, the same tender license.  
"Valentine" was followed by "Lelia," a wonderful book indeed, 
gorgeous in eloquence, and rich in magnificent poetry: a regular 
topsyturvyfication of morality, a thieves' and prostitutes' 
apotheosis.  This book has received some late enlargements and 
emendations by the writer; it contains her notions on morals, 
which, as we have said, are so peculiar, that, alas! they only can 
be mentioned here, not particularized: but of "Spiridion" we may 
write a few pages, as it is her religious manifesto.

In this work, the lady asserts her pantheistical doctrine, and 
openly attacks the received Christian creed.  She declares it to be 
useless now, and unfitted to the exigencies and the degree of 
culture of the actual world; and, though it would be hardly worth 
while to combat her opinions in due form, it is, at least, worth 
while to notice them, not merely from the extraordinary eloquence 
and genius of the woman herself, but because they express the 
opinions of a great number of people besides: for she not only 
produces her own thoughts, but imitates those of others very 
eagerly; and one finds in her writings so much similarity with 
others, or, in others, so much resemblance to her, that the book 
before us may pass for the expression of the sentiments of a 
certain French party.

"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  un Dieu qui se meurt!"  Another of the pantheist 
poetical philosophers, Mr. Edgar Quinet, has a poem, in which 
Christ and the Virgin Mary are made to die similarly, and the 
former is classed with Prometheus.  This book of "Spiridion" is a 
continuation of the theme, and perhaps you will listen to some of 
the author's expositions of it.

It must be confessed that the controversialists of the present day 
have an eminent advantage over their predecessors in the days of 
folios; it required some learning then to write a book, and some 
time, at least--for the very labor of writing out a thousand such 
vast pages would demand a considerable period.  But now, in the age 
of duodecimos, the system is reformed altogether: a male or female 
controversialist draws upon his imagination, and not his learning; 
makes a story instead of an argument, and, in the course of 150 
pages (where the preacher has it all his own way) will prove or 
disprove you anything.  And, to our shame be it said, we 
Protestants have set the example of this kind of proselytism--those 
detestable mixtures of truth, lies, false sentiment, false 
reasoning, bad grammar, correct and genuine philanthropy and piety--
I mean our religious tracts, which any woman or man, be he ever so 
silly, can take upon himself to write, and sell for a penny, as if 
religious instruction were the easiest thing in the world.  We, I 
say, have set the example in this kind of composition, and all the 
sects of the earth will, doubtless, speedily follow it.  I can 
point you out blasphemies in famous pious tracts that are as 
dreadful as those above mentioned; but this is no place for such 
discussions, and we had better return to Madame Sand.  As Mrs. 
Sherwood expounds, by means of many touching histories and 
anecdotes of little boys and girls, her notions of church history, 
church catechism, church doctrine;--as the author of "Father 
Clement, a Roman Catholic Story," demolishes the stately structure 
of eighteen centuries, the mighty and beautiful Roman Catholic 
faith, in whose bosom repose so many saints and sages,--by the 
means of a three-and-sixpenny duodecimo volume, which tumbles over 
the vast fabric, as David's pebble-stone did Goliath;--as, again, 
the Roman Catholic author of "Geraldine" falls foul of Luther and 
Calvin, and drowns the awful echoes of their tremendous protest by 
the sounds of her little half-crown trumpet: in like manner, by 
means of pretty sentimental tales, and cheap apologues, Mrs. Sand 
proclaims HER truth--that we need a new Messiah, and that the 
Christian religion is no more!  O awful, awful name of God!  Light 
unbearable!  Mystery unfathomable!  Vastness immeasurable!--Who are 
these who come forward to explain the mystery, and gaze unblinking 
into the depths of the light, and measure the immeasurable vastness 
to a hair?  O name, that God's people of old did fear to utter!  O 
light, that God's prophet would have perished had he seen!  Who are 
these that are now so familiar with it?--Women, truly; for the most 
part weak women--weak in intellect, weak mayhap in spelling and 
grammar, but marvellously strong in faith:--women, who step down to 
the people with stately step and voice of authority, and deliver 
their twopenny tablets, as if there were some Divine authority for 
the wretched nonsense recorded there!

With regard to the spelling and grammar, our Parisian Pythoness 
stands, in the goodly fellowship, remarkable.  Her style is a 
noble, and, as far as a foreigner can judge, a strange tongue, 
beautifully rich and pure.  She has a very exuberant imagination, 
and, with it, a very chaste style of expression.  She never 
scarcely indulges in declamation, as other modern prophets do, and 
yet her sentences are exquisitely melodious and full.  She seldom 
runs a thought to death (after the manner of some prophets, who, 
when they catch a little one, toy with it until they kill it), but 
she leaves you at the end of one of her brief, rich, melancholy 
sentences, with plenty of food for future cogitation.  I can't 
express to you the charm of them; they seem to me like the sound of 
country bells--provoking I don't know what vein of musing and 
meditation, and falling sweetly and sadly on the ear.

This wonderful power of language must have been felt by most people 
who read Madame Sand's first books, "Valentine" and "Indiana": in 
"Spiridion" it is greater, I think, than ever; and for those who 
are not afraid of the matter of the novel, the manner will be found 
most delightful.  The author's intention, I presume, is to 
describe, in a parable, her notions of the downfall of the Catholic 
church; and, indeed, of the whole Christian scheme: she places her 
hero in a monastery in Italy, where, among the characters about 
him, and the events which occur, the particular tenets of Madame 
Dudevant's doctrine are not inaptly laid down.  Innocent, faithful, 
tender-hearted, a young monk, by name Angel, finds himself, when he 
has pronounced his vows, an object of aversion and hatred to the 
godly men whose lives he so much respects, and whose love he would 
make any sacrifice to win.  After enduring much, he flings himself 
at the feet of his confessor, and begs for his sympathy and 
counsel; but the confessor spurns him away, and accuses him, 
fiercely, of some unknown and terrible crime--bids him never return 
to the confessional until contrition has touched his heart, and the 
stains which sully his spirit are, by sincere repentance, washed 
away.

"Thus speaking," says Angel, "Father Hegesippus tore away his robe, 
which I was holding in my supplicating hands.  In a sort of 
wildness I still grasped it tighter; he pushed me fiercely from 
him, and I fell with my face towards the ground.  He quitted me, 
closing violently after him the door of the sacristy, in which this 
scene had passed.  I was left alone in the darkness.  Either from 
the violence of my fall, or the excess of my grief, a vein had 
burst in my throat, and a haemorrhage ensued.  I had not the force 
to rise; I felt my senses rapidly sinking, and, presently, I lay 
stretched on the pavement, unconscious, and bathed in my blood."

[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 approach, and then again to withdraw, breathing now softly and 
sweetly in the distance, and now returning, as if to give me 
strength and courage to rise.

"I would not, however, do so as yet; for I felt myself, as I lay, 
under the influence of a pleasure quite new to me; and listened, in 
a kind of peaceful aberration, to the gentle murmurs of the summer 
wind, as it breathed on me through the closed window-blinds above 
me.  Then I fancied I heard a voice that spoke to me from the end 
of the sacristy: it whispered so low that I could not catch the 
words.  I remained motionless, and gave it my whole attention.  At 
last I heard, distinctly, the following sentence:--'Spirit of 
Truth, raise up these victims of ignorance and imposture.'  'Father 
Hegesippus,' said I, in a weak voice, 'is that you who are 
returning to me?'  But no one answered.  I lifted myself on my 
hands and knees, I listened again, but I heard nothing.  I got up 
completely, and looked about me: I had fallen so near to the only 
door in this little room, that none, after the departure of the 
confessor, could have entered it without passing over me; besides, 
the door was shut, and only opened from the inside by a strong lock 
of the ancient shape.  I touched it, and assured myself that it was 
closed.  I was seized with terror, and, for some moments, did not 
dare to move.  Leaning against the door, I looked round, and 
endeavored to see into the gloom in which the angles of the room 
were enveloped.  A pale light, which came from an upper window, 
half closed, was seen to be trembling in the midst of the 
apartment.  The wind beat the shutter to and fro, and enlarged or 
diminished the space through which the light issued.  The objects 
which were in this half light--the praying-desk, surmounted by its 
skull--a few books lying on the benches--a surplice hanging against 
the wall--seemed to move with the shadow of the foliage that the 
air agitated behind the window.  When I thought I was alone, I felt 
ashamed of my former timidity; I made the sign of the cross, and 
was about to move forward in order to open the shutter altogether, 
but a deep sigh came from the praying-desk, and kept me nailed to 
my place.  And yet I saw the desk distinctly enough to be sure that 
no person was near it.  Then I had an idea which gave me courage.  
Some person, I thought, is behind the shutter, and has been saying 
his prayers outside without thinking of me.  But who would be so 
bold as to express such wishes and utter such a prayer as I had 
just heard?

"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 deserted, and the mid-day wind was
wandering among the flowers.  I took courage, I examined all the
corners of the room; I looked behind the praying-desk, which was
very large, and I shook all the sacerdotal vestments which were
hanging on the walls, everything was in its natural condition, and
could give me no explanation of what had just occurred.  The sight
of all the blood I had lost led me to fancy that my brain had,
probably, been weakened by the haemorrhage, and that I had been a
prey to some delusion.  I retired to my cell, and remained shut up
there until the next day."

I don't know whether the reader has been as much struck with the 
above mysterious scene as the writer has; but the fancy of it 
strikes me as very fine; and the natural SUPERNATURALNESS is kept 
up in the best style.  The shutter swaying to and fro, the fitful 
LIGHT APPEARING over the furniture of the room, and giving it an 
air of strange motion--the awful shadow which passed through the 
body of the timid young novice--are surely very finely painted.  "I 
rushed to the shutter, and flung it back: there was no one in the 
sacristy.  I looked into the garden; it was deserted, and the mid-
day wind was roaming among the flowers."  The dreariness is 
wonderfully described: only the poor pale boy looking eagerly out 
from the window of the sacristy, and the hot mid-day wind walking 
in the solitary garden.  How skilfully is each of these little 
strokes dashed in, and how well do all together combine to make a 
picture!  But we must have a little more about Spiridion's 
wonderful visitant.


"As I entered into the garden, I stepped a little on one side, to 
make way for a person whom I saw before me.  He was a young man of 
surprising beauty, and attired in a foreign costume.  Although 
dressed in the large black robe which the superiors of our order 
wear, he had, underneath, a short jacket of fine cloth, fastened 
round the waist by a leathern belt, and a buckle of silver, after 
the manner of the old German students.  Like them, he wore, instead 
of the sandals of our monks, short tight boots; and over the collar 
of his shirt, which fell on his shoulders, and was as white as 
snow, hung, in rich golden curls, the most beautiful hair I ever 
saw.  He was tall, and his elegant posture seemed to reveal to me 
that he was in the habit of commanding.  With much respect, and yet 
uncertain, I half saluted him.  He did not return my salute; but he 
smiled on me with so benevolent an air, and at the same time, his 
eyes severe and blue, looked towards me with an expression of such 
compassionate tenderness, that his features have never since then 
passed away from my recollection.  I stopped, hoping he would speak 
to me, and persuading myself, from the majesty of his aspect, that 
he had the power to protect me; but the monk, who was walking 
behind me, and who did not seem to remark him in the least, forced 
him brutally to step aside from the walk, and pushed me so rudely 
as almost to cause me to fall.  Not wishing to engage in a quarrel 
with this coarse monk, I moved away; but, after having taken a few 
steps in the garden, I looked back, and saw the unknown still 
gazing on me with looks of the tenderest solicitude.  The sun shone 
full upon him, and made his hair look radiant.  He sighed, and 
lifted his fine eyes to heaven, as if to invoke its justice in my 
favor, and to call it to bear witness to my misery; he turned 
slowly towards the sanctuary, entered into the quire, and was lost, 
presently, in the shade.  I longed to return, spite of the monk, to 
follow this noble stranger, and to tell him my afflictions; but who 
was he, that I imagined he would listen to them, and cause them to 
cease?  I felt, even while his softness drew me towards him, that 
he still inspired me with a kind of fear; for I saw in his 
physiognomy as much austerity as sweetness."


Who was he?--we shall see that.  He was somebody very mysterious 
indeed; but our author has taken care, after the manner of her sex, 
to make a very pretty fellow of him, and to dress him in the most 
becoming costumes possible.


The individual in tight boots and a rolling collar, with the 
copious golden locks, and the solemn blue eyes, who had just gazed 
on Spiridion, and inspired him with such a feeling of tender awe, 
is a much more important personage than the reader might suppose at 
first sight.  This beautiful, mysterious, dandy ghost, whose 
costume, with a true woman's coquetry, Madame Dudevant has so 
rejoiced to describe--is her religious type, a mystical 
representation of Faith struggling up towards Truth, through 
superstition, doubt, fear, reason,--in tight inexpressibles, with 
"a belt such as is worn by the old German students."  You will 
pardon me for treating such an awful person as this somewhat 
lightly; but there is always, I think, such a dash of the 
ridiculous in the French sublime, that the critic should try and do 
justice to both, or he may fail in giving a fair account of either.  
This character of Hebronius, the type of Mrs. Sand's convictions--
if convictions they may be called--or, at least, the allegory under 
which her doubts are represented, is, in parts, very finely drawn; 
contains many passages of truth, very deep and touching, by the 
side of others so entirely absurd and unreasonable, that the 
reader's feelings are continually swaying between admiration and 
something very like contempt--always in a kind of wonder at the 
strange mixture before him.  But let us hear Madame Sand:--

"Peter Hebronius," says our author, "was not originally so named.  
His real name was Samuel.  He was a Jew, and born in a little 
village in the neighborhood of Innsprck.  His family, which 
possessed a considerable fortune, left him, in his early youth, 
completely free to his own pursuits.  From infancy he had shown 
that these were serious.  He loved to be alone and passed his days, 
and sometimes his nights, wandering among the mountains and valleys 
in the neighborhood of his birthplace.  He would often sit by the 
brink of torrents, listening to the voice of their waters, and 
endeavoring to penetrate the meaning which Nature had hidden in 
those sounds.  As he advanced in years, his inquiries became more 
curious and more grave.  It was necessary that he should receive a 
solid education, and his parents sent him to study in the German 
universities.  Luther had been dead only a century, and his words 
and his memory still lived in the enthusiasm of his disciples.  
The new faith was strengthening the conquests it had made; the 
Reformers were as ardent as in the first days, but their ardor was 
more enlightened and more measured.  Proselytism was still carried 
on with zeal, and new converts were made every day.  In listening 
to the morality and to the dogmas which Lutheranism had taken from 
Catholicism, Samuel was filled with admiration.  His bold and 
sincere spirit instantly compared the doctrines which were now 
submitted to him, with those in the belief of which he had been 
bred; and, enlightened by the comparison, was not slow to 
acknowledge the inferiority of Judaism.  He said to himself, that a 
religion made for a single people, to the exclusion of all others,--
which only offered a barbarous justice for rule of conduct,--which 
neither rendered the present intelligible nor satisfactory, and 
left the future uncertain,--could not be that of noble souls and 
lofty intellects; and that he could not be the God of truth who had 
dictated, in the midst of thunder, his vacillating will, and had 
called to the performance of his narrow wishes the slaves of a 
vulgar terror.  Always conversant with himself, Samuel, who had 
spoken what he thought, now performed what he had spoken; and, a 
year after his arrival in Germany, solemnly abjured Judaism, and 
entered into the bosom of the Reformed Church.  As he did not wish 
to do things by halves, and desired as much as was in him to put 
off the old man and lead a new life, he changed his name of Samuel 
to that of Peter.  Some time passed, during which he strengthened 
and instructed himself in his new religion.  Very soon he arrived 
at the point of searching for objections to refute, and adversaries 
to overthrow.  Bold and enterprising, he went at once to the 
strongest, and Bossuet was the first Catholic author that he set 
himself to read.  He commenced with a kind of disdain; believing 
that the faith which he had just embraced contained the pure truth.  
He despised all the attacks which could be made against it, and 
laughed already at the irresistible arguments which he was to find 
in the works of the Eagle of Meaux.  But his mistrust and irony 
soon gave place to wonder first, and then to admiration: he thought 
that the cause pleaded by such an advocate must, at least, be 
respectable; and, by a natural transition, came to think that great 
geniuses would only devote themselves to that which was great.  He 
then studied Catholicism with the same ardor and impartiality which 
he had bestowed on Lutheranism.  He went into France to gain 
instruction from the professors of the Mother Church, as he had 
from the Doctors of the reformed creed in Germany.  He saw Arnauld 
Fnlon, that second Gregory of Nazianzen, and Bossuet himself.  
Guided by these masters, whose virtues made him appreciate their 
talents the more, he rapidly penetrated to the depth of the 
mysteries of the Catholic doctrine and morality.  He found, in this 
religion, all that had for him constituted the grandeur and beauty 
of Protestantism,--the dogmas of the Unity and Eternity of God, 
which the two religions had borrowed from Judaism; and, what seemed 
the natural consequence of the last doctrine--a doctrine, however, 
to which the Jews had not arrived--the doctrine of the immortality 
of the soul; free will in this life; in the next, recompense for 
the good, and punishment for the evil.  He found, more pure, 
perhaps, and more elevated in Catholicism than in Protestantism, 
that sublime morality which preaches equality to man, fraternity, 
love, charity, renouncement of self, devotion to your neighbor; 
Catholicism, in a word, seemed to possess that vast formula, and 
that vigorous unity, which Lutheranism wanted.  The latter had, 
indeed, in its favor, the liberty of inquiry, which is also a want 
of the human mind; and had proclaimed the authority of individual 
reason: but it had so lost that which is the necessary basis and 
vital condition of all revealed religion--the principle of 
infallibility; because nothing can live except in virtue of the 
laws that presided at its birth; and, in consequence, one 
revelation cannot be continued and confirmed without another.  Now, 
infallibility is nothing but revelation continued by God, or the 
Word, in the person of his vicars.


"At last, after much reflection, Hebronius acknowledged himself 
entirely and sincerely convinced, and received baptism from the 
hands of Bossuet.  He added the name of Spiridion to that of Peter, 
to signify that he had been twice enlightened by the Spirit.  
Resolved thenceforward to consecrate his life to the worship of the 
new God who had called him to Him, and to the study of His 
doctrines, he passed into Italy, and, with the aid of a large 
fortune, which one of his uncles, a Catholic like himself, had left 
to him, he built this convent where we now are."


A friend of mine, who has just come from Italy, says that he has 
there left Messrs. Sp--r, P--l, and W. Dr--d, who were the lights 
of the great church in Newman Street, who were themselves apostles, 
and declared and believed that every word of nonsense which fell 
from their lips was a direct spiritual intervention.  These 
gentlemen have become Puseyites already, and are, my friend states, 
in the high way to Catholicism.  Madame Sand herself was a Catholic 
some time since: having been converted to that faith along with M. 
N--, of the Academy of Music; Mr. L--, the pianoforte player; and 
one or two other chosen individuals, by the famous Abb de la M--.  
Abb 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 me perdue: the man spoke of his brother clergyman with 
actual horror; and it certainly appears that the Abb's works of 
conversion have not prospered; for Madame Sand, having brought her 
hero (and herself, as we may presume) to the point of Catholicism, 
proceeds directly to dispose of that as she has done of Judaism and 
Protestantism, and will not leave, of the whole fabric of 
Christianity, a single stone standing.

I think the fate of our English Newman Street apostles, and of M. 
de la M--, the mad priest, and his congregation of mad converts, 
should be a warning to such of us as are inclined to dabble in 
religious speculations; for, in them, as in all others, our flighty 
brains soon lose themselves, and we find our reason speedily lying 
prostrated at the mercy of our passions; and I think that Madame 
Sand's novel of Spiridion may do a vast deal of good, and bears a 
good moral with it; though not such an one, perhaps, as our fair 
philosopher intended.  For anything he learned, Samuel-Peter-
Spiridion-Hebronius might have remained a Jew from the beginning to 
the end.  Wherefore be in such a hurry to set up new faiths?  
Wherefore, Madame Sand, try and be so preternaturally wise?  
Wherefore be so eager to jump out of one religion, for the purpose 
of jumping into another?  See what good this philosophical 
friskiness has done you, and on what sort of ground you are come at 
last.  You are so wonderfully sagacious, that you flounder in mud 
at every step; so amazingly clear-sighted, that your eyes cannot 
see an inch before you, having put out, with that extinguishing 
genius of yours, every one of the lights that are sufficient for 
the conduct of common men.  And for what?  Let our friend Spiridion 
speak for himself.  After setting up his convent, and filling it 
with monks, who entertain an immense respect for his wealth and 
genius, Father Hebronius, unanimously elected prior, gives himself 
up to further studies, and leaves his monks to themselves.  
Industrious and sober as they were, originally, they grow quickly 
intemperate and idle; and Hebronius, who does not appear among his 
flock until he has freed himself of the Catholic religion, as he 
has of the Jewish and the Protestant, sees, with dismay, the evil 
condition of his disciples, and regrets, too late, the precipitancy 
by which he renounced, then and for ever, Christianity.  "But, as 
he had no new religion to adopt in its place, and as, grown more 
prudent and calm, he did not wish to accuse himself unnecessarily, 
once more, of inconstancy and apostasy, he still maintained all the 
exterior forms of the worship which inwardly he had abjured.  But 
it was not enough for him to have quitted error, it was necessary 
to discover truth.  But Hebronius had well looked round to discover 
it; he could not find anything that resembled it.  Then commenced 
for him a series of sufferings, unknown and terrible.  Placed face 
to face with doubt, this sincere and religious spirit was 
frightened at its own solitude; and as it had no other desire nor 
aim on earth than truth, and nothing else here below interested it, 
he lived absorbed in his own sad contemplations, looked ceaselessly 
into the vague that surrounded him like an ocean without bounds, 
and seeing the horizon retreat and retreat as ever he wished to 
near it.  Lost in this immense uncertainty, he felt as if attacked 
by vertigo, and his thoughts whirled within his brain.  Then, 
fatigued with his vain toils and hopeless endeavors, he would sink 
down depressed, unmanned, life-wearied, only living in the sensation
of that silent grief which he felt and could not comprehend."

It is a pity that this hapless Spiridion, so eager in his passage 
from one creed to another, and so loud in his profession of the 
truth, wherever he fancied that he had found it, had not waited a 
little, before he avowed himself either Catholic or Protestant, and 
implicated others in errors and follies which might, at least, have 
been confined to his own bosom, and there have lain comparatively 
harmless.  In what a pretty state, for instance, will Messrs. Dr--d 
and P--l have left their Newman Street congregation, who are still 
plunged in their old superstitions, from which their spiritual 
pastors and masters have been set free!  In what a state, too, do 
Mrs. Sand and her brother and sister philosophers, Templars, Saint 
Simonians, Fourierites, Lerouxites, or whatever the sect may be, 
leave the unfortunate people who have listened to their doctrines, 
and who have not the opportunity, or the fiery versatility of 
belief, which carries their teachers from one creed to another, 
leaving only exploded lies and useless recantations behind them!  I 
wish the state would make a law that one individual should not be 
allowed to preach more than one doctrine in his life, or, at any 
rate, should be soundly corrected for every change of creed.  How 
many charlatans would have been silenced,--how much conceit would 
have been kept within bounds,--how many fools, who are dazzled by 
fine sentences, and made drunk by declamation, would have remained, 
quiet and sober, in that quiet and sober way of faith which their 
fathers held before them.  However, the reader will be glad to 
learn that, after all his doubts and sorrows, Spiridion does 
discover the truth (THE truth, what a wise Spiridion!) and some 
discretion with it; for, having found among his monks, who are 
dissolute, superstitious--and all hate him--one only being, 
Fulgentius, who is loving, candid, and pious, he says to him, "If 
you were like myself, if the first want of your nature were, like 
mine, to know, I would, without hesitation, lay bare to you my 
entire thoughts.  I would make you drink the cup of truth, which I 
myself have filled with so many tears, at the risk of intoxicating 
you with the draught.  But it is not so, alas! you are made to love 
rather than to know, and your heart is stronger than your 
intellect.  You are attached to Catholicism,--I believe so, at 
least,--by bonds of sentiment which you could not break without 
pain, and which, if you were to break, the truth which I could lay 
bare to you in return would not repay you for what you had 
sacrificed.  Instead of exalting, it would crush you, very likely.  
It is a food too strong for ordinary men, and which, when it does 
not revivify, smothers.  I will not, then, reveal to you this 
doctrine, which is the triumph of my life, and the consolation of 
my last days; because it might, perhaps, be for you only a cause of 
mourning and despair. . . . .  Of all the works which my long 
studies have produced, there is one alone which I have not given to 
the flames; for it alone is complete.  In that you will find me 
entire, and there LIES THE TRUTH.  And, as the sage has said you 
must not bury your treasures in a well, I will not confide mine to 
the brutal stupidity of these monks.  But as this volume should 
only pass into hands worthy to touch it, and be laid open for eyes 
that are capable of comprehending its mysteries, I shall exact from 
the reader one condition, which, at the same time, shall be a 
proof: I shall carry it with me to the tomb, in order that he who 
one day shall read it, may have courage enough to brave the vain 
terrors of the grave, in searching for it amid the dust of my 
sepulchre.  As soon as I am dead, therefore, place this writing on 
my breast. . . . .  Ah! when the time comes for reading it, I think 
my withered heart will spring up again, as the frozen grass at the 
return of the sun, and that, from the midst of its infinite 
transformations, my spirit will enter into immediate communication 
with thine!"


Does not the reader long to be at this precious manuscript, which 
contains THE TRUTH; and ought he not to be very much obliged to 
Mrs. Sand, for being so good as to print it for him?  We leave all 
the story aside: how Fulgentius had not the spirit to read the 
manuscript, but left the secret to Alexis; how Alexis, a stern old 
philosophical unbelieving monk as ever was, tried in vain to lift 
up the gravestone, but was taken with fever, and obliged to forego 
the discovery; and how, finally, Angel, his disciple, a youth 
amiable and innocent as his name, was the destined person who 
brought the long-buried treasure to light.  Trembling and 
delighted, the pair read this tremendous MANUSCRIPT OF SPIRIDION.

Will it be believed, that of all the dull, vague, windy documents 
that mortal ever set eyes on, this is the dullest?  If this be 
absolute truth,  quoi bon search for it, since we have long, long 
had the jewel in our possession, or since, at least, it has been 
held up as such by every sham philosopher who has had a mind to 
pass off his wares on the public?  Hear Spiridion:--

"How much have I wept, how much have I suffered, how much have I 
prayed, how much have I labored, before I understood the cause and 
the aim of my passage on this earth!  After many incertitudes, 
after much remorse, after many scruples, I HAVE COMPREHENDED THAT I 
WAS A MARTYR!--But why my martyrdom? said I; what crimne did I 
commit before I was born, thus to be condemned to labor and 
groaning, from the hour when I first saw the day up to that when I 
am about to enter into the night of the tomb?

"At last, by dint of imploring God--by dint of inquiry into the 
history of man, a ray of the truth has descended on my brow, and 
the shadows of the past have melted from before my eyes.  I have 
lifted a corner of the curtain: I have seen enough to know that my 
life, like that of the rest of the human race, has been a series of 
necessary errors, yet, to speak more correctly, of incomplete 
truths, conducting, more or less slowly and directly, to absolute 
truth and ideal perfection.  But when will they rise on the face of 
the earth--when will they issue from the bosom of the Divinity--
those generations who shall salute the august countenance of Truth, 
and proclaim the reign of the ideal on earth?  I see well how 
humanity marches, but I neither can see its cradle nor its 
apotheosis.  Man seems to me a transitory race, between the beast 
and the angel; but I know not how many centuries have been 
required, that he might pass from the state of brute to the state 
of man, and I cannot tell how many ages are necessary that he may 
pass from the state of man to the state of angel!

"Yet I hope, and I feel within me, at the approach of death, that 
which warns me that great destinies await humanity.  In this life 
all is over for me.  Much have I striven, to advance but little: I 
have labored without ceasing, and have done almost nothing.  Yet, 
after pains immeasurable, I die content, for I know that I have 
done all I could, and am sure that the little I have done will not 
be lost.

"What, then, have I done? this wilt thou demand of me, man of a 
future age, who will seek for truth in the testaments of the past.  
Thou who wilt be no more Catholic--no more Christian, thou wilt ask 
of the poor monk, lying in the dust, an account of his life and 
death.  Thou wouldst know wherefore were his vows, why his 
austerities, his labors, his retreat, his prayers?

"You who turn back to me, in order that I may guide you on your 
road, and that you may arrive more quickly at the goal which it has 
not been my lot to attain, pause, yet, for a moment, and look upon 
the past history of humanity.  You will see that its fate has been 
ever to choose between the least of two evils, and ever to commit 
great faults in order to avoid others still greater.  You will 
see . . . . on one side, the heathen mythology, that debased the 
spirit, in its efforts to deify the flesh; on the other, the 
austere Christian principle, that debased the flesh too much, in 
order to raise the worship of the spirit.  You will see, afterwards,
how the religion of Christ embodies itself in a church, and raises
itself a generous democratic power against the tyranny of princes.
Later still, you will see how that power has attained its end, and
passed beyond it.  You will see it, having chained and conquered
princes, league itself with them, in order to oppress the people,
and seize on temporal power.  Schism, then, raises up against it the
standard of revolt, and preaches the bold and legitimate principle
of liberty of conscience: but, also, you will see how this liberty
of conscience brings religious anarchy in its train; or, worse
still, religious indifference and disgust.  And if your soul,
shattered in the tempestuous changes which you behold humanity
undergoing, would strike out for itself a passage through the rocks,
amidst which, like a frail bark, lies tossing trembling truth, you
will be embarrassed to choose between the new philosophers--who, in
preaching tolerance, destroy religious and social unity--and the
last Christians, who, to preserve society, that is, religion and
philosophy, are obliged to brave the principle of toleration.  Man
of truth! to whom I address, at once, my instruction and my
justification, at the time when you shall live, the science of truth
no doubt will have advanced a step.  Think, then, of all your fathers
have suffered, as, bending beneath the weight of their ignorance and
uncertainty, they have traversed the desert across which, with so
much pain, they have conducted thee!  And if the pride of thy young
learning shall make thee contemplate the petty strifes in which our
life has been consumed, pause and tremble, as you think of that
which is still unknown to yourself, and of the judgment that your
descendants will pass on you.  Think of this, and learn to respect
all those who, seeking their way in all sincerity, have wandered
from the path, frightened by the storm, and sorely tried by the
severe hand of the All-Powerful.  Think of this, and prostrate
yourself; for all these, even the most mistaken among them, are
saints and martyrs.

"Without their conquests and their defeats, thou wert in darkness 
still.  Yes, their failures, their errors even, have a right to 
your respect; for man is weak. . . . .  Weep then, for us obscure 
travellers--unknown victims, who, by our mortal sufferings and 
unheard-of labors, have prepared the way before you.  Pity me, who 
have passionately loved justice, and perseveringly sought for 
truth, only opened my eyes to shut them again for ever, and saw 
that I had been in vain endeavoring to support a ruin, to take 
refuge in a vault of which the foundations were worn away." . . . .

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 Mondes are to 
abide by it for the future.  After having attained it, are we a 
whit wiser?  "Man is between an angel and a beast: I don't know how 
long it is since he was a brute--I can't say how long it will be 
before he is an angel."  Think of people living by their wits, and 
living by such a wit as this!  Think of the state of mental debauch 
and disease which must have been passed through, ere such words 
could be written, and could be popular!

When a man leaves our dismal, smoky London atmosphere, and 
breathes, instead of coal-smoke and yellow fog, this bright, clear, 
French air, he is quite intoxicated by it at first, and feels a 
glow in his blood, and a joy in his spirits, which scarcely thrice 
a year, and then only at a distance from London, he can attain in 
England.  Is the intoxication, I wonder, permanent among the 
natives? and may we not account for the ten thousand frantic freaks 
of these people by the peculiar influence of French air and sun?  
The philosophers are from night to morning drunk, the politicians 
are drunk, the literary men reel and stagger from one absurdity to 
another, and how shall we understand their vagaries?  Let us 
suppose, charitably, that Madame Sand had inhaled a more than 
ordinary quantity of this laughing gas when she wrote for us this 
precious manuscript of Spiridion.  That great destinies are in 
prospect for the human race we may fancy, without her ladyship's 
word for it: but more liberal than she, and having a little 
retrospective charity, as well as that easy prospective benevolence 
which Mrs. Sand adopts, let us try and think there is some hope for 
our fathers (who were nearer brutality than ourselves, according to 
the Sandean creed), or else there is a very poor chance for us, 
who, great philosophers as we are, are yet, alas! far removed from 
that angelic consummation which all must wish for so devoutly.  She 
cannot say--is it not extraordinary?--how many centuries have been 
necessary before man could pass from the brutal state to his 
present condition, or how many ages will be required ere we may 
pass from the state of man to the state of angels?  What the deuce 
is the use of chronology or philosophy?  We were beasts, and we 
can't tell when our tails dropped off: we shall be angels; but when 
our wings are to begin to sprout, who knows?  In the meantime, O 
man of genius, follow our counsel: lead an easy life, don't stick 
at trifles; never mind about DUTY, it is only made for slaves; if 
the world reproach you, reproach the world in return, you have a 
good loud tongue in your head: if your straight-laced morals injure 
your mental respiration, fling off the old-fashioned stays, and 
leave your free limbs to rise and fall as Nature pleases; and when 
you have grown pretty sick of your liberty, and yet unfit to return 
to restraint, curse the world, and scorn it, and be miserable, like 
my Lord Byron and other philosophers of his kidney; or else mount a 
step higher, and, with conceit still more monstrous, and mental 
vision still more wretchedly debauched and weak, begin suddenly to 
find yourself afflicted with a maudlin compassion for the human 
race, and a desire to set them right after your own fashion.  There 
is the quarrelsome stage of drunkenness, when a man can as yet walk 
and speak, when he can call names, and fling plates and wine-
glasses at his neighbor's head with a pretty good aim; after this 
comes the pathetic stage, when the patient becomes wondrous 
philanthropic, and weeps wildly, as he lies in the gutter, and 
fancies he is at home in bed--where he ought to be; but this is an 
allegory.

I don't wish to carry this any farther, or to say a word in defence 
of the doctrine which Mrs. Dudevant has found "incomplete";--here, 
at least, is not the place for discussing its merits, any more than 
Mrs. Sand's book was the place for exposing, forsooth, its errors: 
our business is only with the day and the new novels, and the 
clever or silly people who write them.  Oh! if they but knew their 
places, and would keep to them, and drop their absurd philosophical 
jargon!  Not all the big words in the world can make Mrs. Sand talk 
like a philosopher: when will she go back to her old trade, of 
which she was the very ablest practitioner in France?

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 will 
mount that ascent no more!'--Immediately I heard arise towards me, 
from the depth of invisible abysses, a myriad of formidable voices 
united in a strange chant--'Let us destroy him!  Let him be 
destroyed!  What does he here among the dead?  Let him be delivered 
back to torture!  Let him be given again to life!'

"Then a feeble light began to pierce the darkness, and I perceived 
that I stood on the lowest step of a staircase, vast as the foot of 
a mountain.  Behind me were thousands of steps of lurid iron; 
before me, nothing but a void--an abyss, and ether; the blue gloom 
of midnight beneath my feet, as above my head.  I became delirious, 
and quitting that staircase, which methought it was impossible for 
me to reascend, I sprung forth into the void with an execration.  
But, immediately, when I had uttered the curse, the void began to 
be filled with forms and colors, and I presently perceived that I 
was in a vast gallery, along which I advanced, trembling.  There 
was still darkness round me; but the hollows of the vaults gleamed 
with a red light, and showed me the strange and hideous forms of 
their building. . . . .  I did not distinguish the nearest objects; 
but those towards which I advanced assumed an appearance more and 
more ominous, and my terror increased with every step I took.  The 
enormous pillars which supported the vault, and the tracery thereof 
itself, were figures of men, of supernatural stature, delivered to 
tortures without a name.  Some hung by their feet, and, locked in 
the coils of monstrous serpents, clenched their teeth in the marble 
of the pavement; others, fastened by their waists, were dragged 
upwards, these by their feet, those by their heads, towards 
capitals, where other figures stooped towards them, eager to 
torment them.  Other pillars, again, represented a struggling mass 
of figures devouring one another; each of which only offered a 
trunk severed to the knees or to the shoulders, the fierce heads 
whereof retained life enough to seize and devour that which was 
near them.  There were some who, half hanging down, agonized 
themselves by attempting, with their upper limbs, to flay the lower 
moiety of their bodies, which drooped from the columns, or were 
attached to the pedestals; and others, who, in their fight with 
each other, were dragged along by morsels of flesh,--grasping 
which, they clung to each other with a countenance of unspeakable 
hate and agony.  Along, or rather in place of, the frieze, there 
were on either side a range of unclean beings, wearing the human 
form, but of a loathsome ugliness, busied in tearing human corpses 
to pieces--in feasting upon their limbs and entrails.  From the 
vault, instead of bosses and pendants, hung the crushed and wounded 
forms of children; as if to escape these eaters of man's flesh, 
they would throw themselves downwards, and be dashed to pieces on 
the pavement. . . . .  The silence and motionlessness of the whole 
added to its awfulness.  I became so faint with terror, that I 
stopped, and would fain have returned.  But at that moment I heard, 
from the depths of the gloom through which I had passed, confused 
noises, like those of a multitude on its march.  And the sounds 
soon became more distinct, and the clamor fiercer, and the steps 
came hurrying on tumultuously--at every new burst nearer, more 
violent, more threatening.  I thought that I was pursued by this 
disorderly crowd; and I strove to advance, hurrying into the midst 
of those dismal sculptures.  Then it seemed as if those figures 
began to heave,--and to sweat blood,--and their beady eyes to move 
in their sockets.  At once I beheld that they were all looking upon 
me, that they were all leaning towards me,--some with frightful 
derision, others with furious aversion.  Every arm was raised 
against me, and they made as though they would crush me with the 
quivering limbs they had torn one from the other." . . . .

It is, indeed, a pity that the poor fellow gave himself the trouble 
to go down into damp, unwholesome graves, for the purpose of 
fetching up a few trumpery sheets of manuscript; and if the public 
has been rather tired with their contents, and is disposed to ask 
why Mrs. Sand's religious or irreligious notions are to be brought 
forward to people who are quite satisfied with their own, we can 
only say that this lady is the representative of a vast class of 
her countrymen, whom the wits and philosophers of the eighteenth 
century have brought to this condition.  The leaves of the Diderot 
and Rousseau tree have produced this goodly fruit: here it is, 
ripe, bursting, and ready to fall;--and how to fall?  Heaven send 
that it may drop easily, for all can see that the time is come.




THE CASE OF PEYTEL:

IN A LETTER TO EDWARD BRIEFLESS, ESQUIRE, OF PUMP COURT, TEMPLE.


PARIS, November, 1839.

MY DEAR BRIEFLESS,--Two months since, when the act of accusation 
first appeared, containing the sum of the charges against Sebastian 
Peytel, all Paris was in a fervor on the subject.  The man's trial 
speedily followed, and kept for three days the public interest 
wound up to a painful point.  He was found guilty of double murder 
at the beginning of September; and, since that time, what with 
Maroto's disaffection and Turkish news, we have had leisure to 
forget Monsieur Peytel, and to occupy ourselves with [Greek text 
omitted].  Perhaps Monsieur de Balzac helped to smother what little 
sparks of interest might still have remained for the murderous 
notary.  Balzac put forward a letter in his favor, so very long, so 
very dull, so very pompous, promising so much, and performing so 
little, that the Parisian public gave up Peytel and his case 
altogether; nor was it until to-day that some small feeling was 
raised concerning him, when the newspapers brought the account how 
Peytel's head had been cut off at Bourg.

He had gone through the usual miserable ceremonies and delays which 
attend what is called, in this country, the march of justice.  He 
had made his appeal to the Court of Cassation, which had taken time 
to consider the verdict of the Provincial Court, and had confirmed 
it.  He had made his appeal for mercy; his poor sister coming up 
all the way from Bourg (a sad journey, poor thing!) to have an 
interview with the King, who had refused to see her.  Last Monday 
morning, at nine o'clock, an hour before Peytel's breakfast, the 
Greffier of Assize Court, in company with the Cur of Bourg, waited 
on him, and informed him that he had only three hours to live.  At 
twelve o'clock, Peytel's head was off his body: an executioner from 
Lyons had come over the night before, to assist the professional 
throat-cutter of Bourg.

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 Clbres," knows that 
men have been convicted and executed upon evidence ten times more 
powerful than that which was brought against Peytel.  His own 
account of his horrible case may be true; there is nothing adduced 
in the evidence which is strong enough to overthrow it.  It is a 
serious privilege, God knows, that society takes upon itself, at 
any time, to deprive one of God's creatures of existence.  But when 
the slightest doubt remains, what a tremendous risk does it incur!  
In England, thank heaven, the law is more wise and more merciful: 
an English jury would never have taken a man's blood upon such 
testimony: an English judge and Crown advocate would never have 
acted as these Frenchmen have done; the latter inflaming the public 
mind by exaggerated appeals to their passions: the former seeking, 
in every way, to draw confessions from the prisoner, to perplex and 
confound him, to do away, by fierce cross-questioning and bitter 
remarks from the bench, with any effect that his testimony might 
have on the jury.  I don't mean to say that judges and lawyers have 
been more violent and inquisitorial against the unhappy Peytel than 
against any one else; it is the fashion of the country: a man is 
guilty until he proves himself to be innocent; and to batter down 
his defence, if he have any, there are the lawyers, with all their 
horrible ingenuity, and their captivating passionate eloquence.  It 
is hard thus to set the skilful and tried champions of the law 
against men unused to this kind of combat; nay, give a man all the 
legal aid that he can purchase or procure, still, by this plan, you 
take him at a cruel, unmanly disadvantage; he has to fight against 
the law, clogged with the dreadful weight of his presupposed guilt.  
Thank God that, in England, things are not managed so.

However, I am not about to entertain you with ignorant disquisitions
about the law.  Peytel's case may, nevertheless, interest you; for
the tale is a very stirring and mysterious one; and you may see how
easy a thing it is for a man's life to be talked away in France, if
ever he should happen to fall under the suspicion of a crime.  The
French "Acte d'accusation" begins in the following manner:--

"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, 
Flicit Alcazar, wife of Sebastian Benedict Peytel, notary, at 
Belley.  At the end of October, 1838, Madame Peytel quitted that 
town, with her husband, and their servant Louis Rey, in order to 
pass a few days at Macon: at midnight, the inhabitants of Belley 
were suddenly awakened by the arrival of Monsieur Peytel, by his 
cries, and by the signs which he exhibited of the most lively 
agitation: he implored the succors of all the physicians in the 
town; knocked violently at their doors; rung at the bells of their 
houses with a sort of frenzy, and announced that his wife, 
stretched out, and dying, in his carriage, had just been shot, on 
the Lyons road, by his domestic, whose life Peytel himself had 
taken.

"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, deprived of life; 
her whole body was wet, and seemed as if it had just been plunged 
into the water.  She appeared to be severely wounded in the face; 
and her garments, which were raised up, in spite of the cold and 
rainy weather, left the upper part of her knees almost entirely 
exposed.  At the sight of this half-naked and inanimate body, all 
the spectators were affected.  People said that the first duty to 
pay to a dying woman was, to preserve her from the cold, to cover 
her.  A physician examined the body; he declared that all remedies 
were useless; that Madame Peytel was dead and cold.

"The entreaties of Peytel were redoubled; he demanded fresh 
succors, and, giving no heed to the fatal assurance which had just 
been given him, required that all the physicians in the place 
should be sent for.  A scene so strange and so melancholy; the 
incoherent account given by Peytel of the murder of his wife; his 
extraordinary movements; and the avowal which he continued to make, 
that he had despatched the murderer, Rey, with strokes of his 
hammer, excited the attention of Lieutenant Wolf, commandant of 
gendarmes: that officer gave orders for the immediate arrest of 
Peytel; but the latter threw himself into the arms of a friend, who 
interceded for him, and begged the police not immediately to seize 
upon his person.

"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 
happy, just prepossession 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 carriage, toute 
ruisselante, just out of a river; her garments, in spite of the 
cold and rain, raised, so as to leave the upper part of her knees 
entirely exposed, at which all the beholders were affected, and 
cried, that the FIRST DUTY was to cover her from the cold."  This 
settles the case at once; the first duty of a man is to cover the 
legs of the sufferer; the second to call for help.  The eloquent 
"Substitut du Procureur du Roi" has prejudged the case, in the 
course of a few sentences.  He is putting his readers, among whom 
his future jury is to be found, into a proper state of mind; he 
works on them with pathetic description, just as a romance-writer 
would: the rain pours in torrents; it is a dreary evening in 
November; the young creature's situation is neatly described; the 
distrust which entered into the breast of the keen old officer of 
gendarmes strongly painted, the suspicions which might, or might 
not, have been entertained by the inhabitants, eloquently argued.  
How did the advocate know that the people had such? did all the 
bystanders say aloud, "I suspect that this is a case of murder by 
Monsieur Peytel, and that his story about the domestic is all 
deception?" or did they go off to the mayor, and register their 
suspicion? or was the advocate there to hear them?  Not he; but he 
paints you the whole scene, as though it had existed, and gives 
full accounts of suspicions, as if they had been facts, positive, 
patent, staring, that everybody could see and swear to.

Having thus primed his audience, and prepared them for the 
testimony of the accused party, "Now," says he, with a fine show of 
justice, "let us hear Monsieur Peytel;" and that worthy's narrative 
is given as follows:--

"He said that he had left Macon on the 31st October, at eleven 
o'clock in the morning, in order to return to Belley, with his wife 
and servant.  The latter drove, or led, an open car; he himself was 
driving his wife in a four-wheeled carriage, drawn by one horse: 
they reached Bourg at five o'clock in the evening; left it at 
seven, to sleep at Pont d'Ain, where they did not arrive before 
midnight.  During the journey, Peytel thought he remarked that Rey 
had slackened his horse's pace.  When they alighted at the inn, 
Peytel bade him deposit in his chamber 7,500 francs, which he 
carried with him; but the domestic refused to do so, saying that 
the inn gates were secure, and there was no danger.  Peytel was, 
therefore, obliged to carry his money up stairs himself.  The next 
day, the 1st November, they set out on their journey again, at nine 
o'clock in the morning; Louis did not come, according to custom, to 
take his master's orders.  They arrived at Tenay about three, 
stopped there a couple of hours to dine, and it was eight o'clock 
when they reached the bourg of Rossillon, where they waited half an 
hour to bait the horses.

"As they left Rossillon, the weather became bad, and the rain began 
to fall: Peytel told his domestic to get a covering for the 
articles in the open chariot; but Rey refused to do so, adding, in 
an ironical tone, that the weather was fine.  For some days past, 
Peytel had remarked that his servant was gloomy, and scarcely spoke 
at all.

"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 this moment a violent wind was blowing from the south, and the 
rain was falling heavily: Peytel was seated back in the right 
corner of the carriage, and his wife, who was close to him, was 
asleep, with her head on his left shoulder.  All of a sudden he 
heard the report of a fire-arm (he had seen the light of it at some 
paces' distance), and Madame Peytel cried out, 'My poor husband, 
take your pistols;' the horse was frightened, and began to trot.  
Peytel immediately drew the pistol, and fired, from the interior of 
the carriage, upon an individual whom he saw running by the side of 
the road.

"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 endeavored to draw her from the water; and it was only 
after considerable exertions that he was enabled to do so, and to 
place her, with her face towards the ground, on the side of the 
road.  Supposing that, here, she would be sheltered from any 
farther danger, and believing, as yet, that she was only wounded, 
he determined to ask for help at a lone house, situated on the road 
towards Rossillon; and at this instant he perceived, without at all 
being able to explain how, that his horse had followed him back to 
the spot, having turned back of its own accord, from the road to 
Belley.

"The house at which he knocked was inhabited by two men, of the 
name of Thannet, father and son, who opened the door to him, and 
whom he entreated to come to his aid, saying that his wife had just 
been assassinated by his servant.  The elder Thannet approached to, 
and examined the body, and told Peytel that it was quite dead; he 
and his son took up the corpse, and placed it in the bottom of the 
carriage, which they all mounted themselves, and pursued their 
route to Belley.  In order to do so, they had to pass by Rey's 
body, on the road, which Peytel wished to crush under the wheels of 
his carriage.  It was to rob him of 7,500 francs, said Peytel, that 
the attack had been made."

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 her bereaved husband into despair--almost into madness.  
Some early differences had marked, it is true, the commencement of 
their union; but these, which, as can be proved by evidence, were 
almost all the unhappy lady's fault,--had happily ceased, to give 
place to sentiments far more delightful and tender.  Gentlemen, 
Madame Peytel bore in her bosom a sweet pledge of future concord 
between herself and her husband: in three brief months she was to 
become a mother.

"In the exercise of his honorable profession,--in which, to 
succeed, a man must not only have high talents, but undoubted 
probity,--and, gentlemen, Monsieur Peytel DID succeed--DID inspire 
respect and confidence, as you, his neighbors, well know;--in the 
exercise, I say, of his high calling, Monsieur Peytel, towards the 
end of October last, had occasion to make a journey in the 
neighborhood, and visit some of his many clients.

"He travelled in his own carriage, his young wife beside him.  Does 
this look like want of affection, gentlemen? or is it not a mark of 
love--of love and paternal care on his part towards the being with 
whom his lot in life was linked,--the mother of his coming child,--
the young girl, who had everything to gain from the union with a 
man of his attainments of intellect, his kind temper, his great 
experience, and his high position?  In this manner they travelled, 
side by side, lovingly together.  Monsieur Peytel was not a lawyer 
merely, but a man of letters and varied learning; of the noble and 
sublime science of geology he was, especially, an ardent devotee."

(Suppose, here, a short panegyric upon geology.  Allude to the 
creation of this mighty world, and then, naturally, to the Creator.  
Fancy the conversations which Peytel, a religious man,* might have 
with his young wife upon the subject.)


* He always went to mass; it is in the evidence.


"Monsieur Peytel had lately taken into his service a man named 
Louis Rey.  Rey was a foundling, and had passed many years in a 
regiment--a school, gentlemen, where much besides bravery, alas! is 
taught; nay, where the spirit which familiarizes one with notions 
of battle and death, I fear, may familiarize one with ideas, too, 
of murder.  Rey, a dashing reckless fellow, from the army, had 
lately entered Peytel's service, was treated by him with the most 
singular kindness; accompanied him (having charge of another 
vehicle) upon the journey before alluded to; and KNEW THAT HIS 
MASTER CARRIED WITH HIM A CONSIDERABLE SUM OF MONEY; for a man like 
Rey an enormous sum, 7,500 francs.  At midnight on the 1st of 
November, as Madame Peytel and her husband were returning home, an 
attack was made upon their carriage.  Remember, gentlemen, the hour 
at which the attack was made; remember the sum of money that was in 
the carriage; and remember that the Savoy frontier IS WITHIN A 
LEAGUE OF THE SPOT where the desperate deed was done."

Now, my dear Briefless, ought not Monsieur Procureur, in common 
justice to Peytel, after he had so eloquently proclaimed, not the 
facts, but the suspicions, which weighed against that worthy, to 
have given a similar florid account of the prisoner's case?  
Instead of this, you will remark, that it is the advocate's 
endeavor to make Peytel's statements as uninteresting in style as 
possible; and then he demolishes them in the following way:--

"Scarcely was Peytel's statement known, when the common sense of 
the public rose against it.  Peytel had commenced his story upon 
the bridge of Andert, over the cold body of his wife.  On the 2nd 
November he had developed it in detail, in the presence of the 
physicians, in the presence of the assembled neighbors--of the 
persons who, on the day previous only, were his friends.  Finally, 
he had completed it in his interrogatories, his conversations, his 
writings, and letters to the magistrates and everywhere these 
words, repeated so often, were only received with a painful 
incredulity.  The fact was that, besides the singular character 
which Peytel's appearance, attitude, and talk had worn ever since 
the event, there was in his narrative an inexplicable enigma; its 
contradictions and impossibilities were such, that calm persons 
were revolted at it, and that even friendship itself refused to 
believe it."

Thus Mr. Attorney speaks, not for himself alone, but for the whole 
French public; whose opinions, of course, he knows.  Peytel's 
statement is discredited EVERYWHERE; the statement which he had 
made over the cold body of his wife--the monster!  It is not enough 
simply to prove that the man committed the murder, but to make the 
jury violently angry against him, and cause them to shudder in the 
jury-box, as he exposes the horrid details of the crime.

"Justice," goes on Mr. Substitute (who answers for the feelings of 
everybody), "DISTURBED BY THE PRE-OCCUPATIONS OF PUBLIC OPINION, 
commenced, without delay, the most active researches.  The bodies 
of the victims were submitted to the investigations of men of art; 
the wounds and projectiles were examined; the place where the event 
took place explored with care.  The morality of the author of this 
frightful scene became the object of rigorous examination; the 
exigeances of the prisoner, the forms affected by him, his 
calculating silence, and his answers, coldly insulting, were feeble 
obstacles; and justice at length arrived, by its prudence, and by 
the discoveries it made, to the most cruel point of certainty."

You see that a man's demeanor is here made a crime against him; and 
that Mr. Substitute wishes to consider him guilty, because he has 
actually the audacity to hold his tongue.  Now follows a touching 
description of the domestic, Louis Rey:--


"Louis Rey, a child of the Hospital at Lyons, was confided, at a 
very early age, to some honest country people, with whom he stayed 
until he entered the army.  At their house, and during this long 
period of time, his conduct, his intelligence, and the sweetness of 
his manners were such, that the family of his guardians became to 
him as an adopted family; and his departure caused them the most 
sincere affliction.  When Louis quitted the army, he returned to 
his benefactors, and was received as a son.  They found him just as 
they had ever known him" (I acknowledge that this pathos beats my 
humble defence of Peytel entirely), "except that he had learned to 
read and write; and the certificates of his commanders proved him 
to be a good and gallant soldier.

"The necessity of creating some resources for himself, obliged him 
to quit his friends, and to enter the service of Monsieur de 
Montrichard, a lieutenant of gendarmerie, from whom he received 
fresh testimonials of regard.  Louis, it is true, might have a 
fondness for wine and a passion for women; but he had been a 
soldier, and these faults were, according to the witnesses, amply 
compensated for by his activity, his intelligence, and the 
agreeable manner in which he performed his service.  In the month 
of July, 1839, Rey quitted, voluntarily, the service of M. de 
Montrichard; and Peytel, about this period, meeting him at Lyons, 
did not hesitate to attach him to his service.  Whatever may be the 
prisoner's present language, it is certain that up to the day of 
Louis's death, he served Peytel with diligence and fidelity.

"More than once his master and mistress spoke well of him.  
EVERYBODY who has worked, or been at the house of Madame Peytel, 
has spoken in praise of his character; and, indeed, it may be said, 
that these testimonials were general.

"On the very night of the 1st of November, and immediately after 
the catastrophe, we remark how Peytel begins to make insinuations 
against his servant; and how artfully, in order to render them more 
sure, he disseminates them through the different parts of his 
narrative.  But, in the course of the proceeding, these charges 
have met with a most complete denial.  Thus we find the disobedient 
servant who, at Pont d'Ain, refused to carry the money-chest to his 
master's room, under the pretext that the gates of the inn were 
closed securely, occupied with tending the horses after their long 
journey: meanwhile Peytel was standing by, and neither master nor 
servant exchanged a word, and the witnesses who beheld them both 
have borne testimony to the zeal and care of the domestic.

"In like manner, we find that the servant, who was so remiss in the 
morning as to neglect to go to his master for orders, was ready for 
departure before seven o'clock, and had eagerly informed himself 
whether Monsieur and Madame Peytel were awake; learning from the 
maid of the inn, that they had ordered nothing for their breakfast.  
This man, who refused to carry with him a covering for the car, 
was, on the contrary, ready to take off his own cloak, and with it 
shelter articles of small value; this man, who had been for many 
days so silent and gloomy, gave, on the contrary, many proofs of 
his gayety--almost of his indiscretion, speaking, at all the inns, 
in terms of praise of his master and mistress.  The waiter at the 
inn at Dauphin, says he was a tall young fellow, mild and good-
natured; 'we talked for some time about horses, and such things; he 
seemed to be perfectly natural, and not pre-occupied at all.'  At 
Pont d'Ain, he talked of his being a foundling; of the place where 
he had been brought up, and where he had served; and finally, at 
Rossillon, an hour before his death, he conversed familiarly with 
the master of the port, and spoke on indifferent subjects.

"All Peytel's insinuations against his servant had no other end 
than to show, in every point of Rey's conduct, the behavior of a 
man who was premeditating attack.  Of what, in fact, does he accuse 
him?  Of wishing to rob him of 7,500 francs, and of having had 
recourse to assassination, in order to effect the robbery.  But, 
for a premeditated crime, consider what singular improvidence the 
person showed who had determined on committing it; what folly and 
what weakness there is in the execution of it.

"How many insurmountable obstacles are there in the way of 
committing and profiting by crime!  On leaving Belley, Louis Rey, 
according to Peytel's statement, knowing that his master would 
return with money, provided himself with a holster pistol, which 
Madame Peytel had once before perceived among his effects.  In 
Peytel's cabinet there were some balls; four of these were found in 
Rey's trunk, on the 6th of November.  And, in order to commit the 
crime, this domestic had brought away with him a pistol, and no 
ammunition; for Peytel has informed us that Rey, an hour before his 
departure from Macon, purchased six balls at a gunsmith's.  To gain 
his point, the assassin must immolate his victims; for this, he has 
only one pistol, knowing, perfectly well, that Peytel, in all his 
travels, had two on his person; knowing that, at a late hour of the 
night, his shot might fail of effect; and that, in this case, he 
would be left to the mercy of his opponent.

"The execution of the crime is, according to Peytel's account, 
still more singular.  Louis does not get off the carriage, until 
Peytel tells him to descend.  He does not think of taking his 
master's life until he is sure that the latter has his eyes open.  
It is dark, and the pair are covered in one cloak; and Rey only 
fires at them at six paces' distance: he fires at hazard, without 
disquieting himself as to the choice of his victim; and the 
soldier, who was bold enough to undertake this double murder, has 
not force nor courage to consummate it.  He flies, carrying in his 
hand a useless whip, with a heavy mantle on his shoulders, in spite 
of the detonation of two pistols at his ears, and the rapid steps 
of an angry master in pursuit, which ought to have set him upon 
some better means of escape.  And we find this man, full of youth 
and vigor, lying with his face to the ground, in the midst of a 
public road, falling without a struggle, or resistance, under the 
blows of a hammer!

"And suppose the murderer had succeeded in his criminal projects, 
what fruit could he have drawn from them?--Leaving, on the road, 
the two bleeding bodies; obliged to lead two carriages at a time, 
for fear of discovery; not able to return himself, after all the 
pains he had taken to speak, at every place at which they had 
stopped, of the money which his master was carrying with him; too 
prudent to appear alone at Belley; arrested at the frontier, by the 
excise officers, who would present an impassable barrier to him 
till morning, what could he do, or hope to do?  The examination of 
the car has shown that Rey, at the moment of the crime, had neither 
linen, nor clothes, nor effects of any kind.  There was found in 
his pockets, when the body was examined, no passport, nor 
certificate; one of his pockets contained a ball, of large calibre, 
which he had shown, in play, to a girl, at the inn at Macon, a 
little horn-handled knife, a snuff-box, a little packet of 
gunpowder, and a purse, containing only a halfpenny and some 
string.  Here is all the baggage, with which, after the execution 
of his homicidal plan, Louis Rey intended to take refuge in a 
foreign country.*  Beside these absurd contradictions, there is 
another remarkable fact, which must not be passed over; it is 
this:--the pistol found by Rey is of antique form, and the original 
owner of it has been found.  He is a curiosity-merchant at Lyons; 
and, though he cannot affirm that Peytel was the person who bought 
this pistol of him, he perfectly recognizes Peytel as having been a 
frequent customer at his shop!


* This sentence is taken from another part of the "Acte 
d'accusation."


"No, we may fearlessly affirm that Louis Rey was not guilty of the 
crime which Peytel lays to his charge.  If, to those who knew him, 
his mild and open disposition, his military career, modest and 
without a stain, the touching regrets of his employers, are 
sufficient proofs of his innocence,--the calm and candid observer, 
who considers how the crime was conceived, was executed, and what 
consequences would have resulted from it, will likewise acquit him, 
and free him of the odious imputation which Peytel endeavors to 
cast upon his memory.

"But justice has removed the veil, with which an impious hand 
endeavored to cover itself.  Already, on the night of the 1st of 
November, suspicion was awakened by the extraordinary agitation of 
Peytel; by those excessive attentions towards his wife, which came 
so late; by that excessive and noisy grief, and by those calculated 
bursts of sorrow, which are such as Nature does not exhibit.  The 
criminal, whom the public conscience had fixed upon; the man whose 
frightful combinations have been laid bare, and whose falsehoods, 
step by step, have been exposed, during the proceedings previous to 
the trial; the murderer, at whose hands a heart-stricken family, 
and society at large, demands an account of the blood of a wife;--
that murderer is Peytel."

When, my dear Briefless, you are a judge (as I make no doubt you 
will be, when you have left off the club all night, cigar-smoking 
of mornings, and reading novels in bed), will you ever find it in 
your heart to order a fellow-sinner's head off upon such evidence 
as this?  Because a romantic Substitut du Procureur de Roi chooses 
to compose and recite a little drama, and draw tears from juries, 
let us hope that severe Rhadamanthine judges are not to be melted 
by such trumpery.  One wants but the description of the characters 
to render the piece complete, as thus:--


      Personages                             Costumes.

SEBASTIAN PEYTAL  Meurtrier        Habillement complet de notaire 
                                   perfide: figure ple, barbe 
                                   noire, cheveux noirs. 

LOUIS REY   Soldat rtir, bon,    Costume ordinaire; il porte sur
            brave, franc, jovial   ses paules une couverture de 
            aimant le vin, les     cheval.
            femmes, la gaiet, 
            ses matres surtout; 
            vrai Franais, enfin

WOLF     Lieutenant de gendarmerie.

FLICIT D'ALCAZAR   Femme et victime de Peytel.

Mdecins, Villageois, Filles d'Auberge, Garons d'Ecurie, &c. &c.

La scne se passe sur le pont d'Andert, entre Macon et Belley.  Il 
est minuit.  La pluie tombe: les tonnerres grondent.  Le ciel est 
convert de nuages, et sillonn d'clairs.


All these personages are brought into play in the Procureur's 
drama; the villagers come in with their chorus; the old lieutenant 
of gendarmes with his suspicions; Rey's frankness and gayety, the 
romantic circumstances of his birth, his gallantry and fidelity, 
are all introduced, in order to form a contrast with Peytel, and to 
call down the jury's indignation against the latter.  But are these 
proofs? or anything like proofs?  And the suspicions, that are to 
serve instead of proofs, what are they?

"My servant, Louis Rey, was very sombre and reserved," says Peytel; 
"he refused to call me in the morning, to carry my money-chest to 
my room, to cover the open car when it rained."  The Prosecutor 
disproves this by stating that Rey talked with the inn maids and 
servants, asked if his master was up, and stood in the inn-yard, 
grooming the horses, with his master by his side, neither speaking 
to the other.  Might he not have talked to the maids, and yet been 
sombre when speaking to his master?  Might he not have neglected to 
call his master, and yet have asked whether he was awake?  Might he 
not have said that the inn-gates were safe, out of hearing of the 
ostler witness?  Mr. Substitute's answers to Peytel's statements 
are no answer at all.  Every word Peytel said might be true, and 
yet Louis Rey might not have committed the murder; or every word 
might have been false, and yet Louis Rey might have committed the 
murder.

"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 always 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 Peytel 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 argument No. 1.  Rey had no need to 
kill two people: he wanted the money, and not the blood.  Suppose 
he had killed Peytel, would he not have mastered Madame Peytel 
easily?--a weak woman, in an excessively delicate situation, 
incapable of much energy, at the best of times.

2.  "He does not fire till he knows his master's eyes are open."  
Why, on a stormy night, does a man driving a carriage go to sleep?  
Was Rey to wait until his master snored?  "He fires at six paces, 
not caring whom he hits;"--and might not this happen too?  The 
night is not so dark but that he can see his master, in HIS USUAL 
PLACE, driving.  He fires and hits--whom?  Madame Peytel, who had 
left her place, AND WAS WRAPPED UP WITH PEYTEL IN HIS CLOAK.  She 
screams out, "Husband, take your pistols."  Rey knows that his 
master has a brace, thinks that he has hit the wrong person, and, 
as Peytel fires on him, runs away.  Peytel follows, hammer in hand; 
as he comes up with the fugitive, he deals him a blow on the back 
of the head, and Rey falls--his face to the ground.  Is there 
anything unnatural in this story?--anything so monstrously unnatural,
that is, that it might not be true?

3.  These objections are absurd.  Why need a man have change of 
linen?  If he had taken none for the journey, why should he want 
any for the escape?  Why need he drive two carriages?--He might 
have driven both into the river, and Mrs. Peytel in one.  Why is he 
to go to the douane, and thrust himself into the very jaws of 
danger?  Are there not a thousand ways for a man to pass a 
frontier?  Do smugglers, when they have to pass from one country to 
another, choose exactly those spots where a police is placed?

And, finally, the gunsmith of Lyons, who knows Peytel quite well, 
cannot say that he sold the pistol to him; that is, he did NOT sell 
the pistol to him; for you have only one man's word, in this case 
(Peytel's), to the contrary; and the testimony, as far as it goes, 
is in his favor.  I say, my lud, and gentlemen of the jury, that 
these objections of my learned friend, who is engaged for the 
Crown, are absurd, frivolous, monstrous; that to SUSPECT away the 
life of a man upon such suppositions as these, is wicked, illegal, 
and inhuman; and, what is more, that Louis Rey, if he wanted to 
commit the crime--if he wanted to possess himself of a large sum of 
money, chose the best time and spot for so doing; and, no doubt, 
would have succeeded, if Fate had not, in a wonderful manner, 
caused Madame Peytel TO TAKE HER HUSBAND'S PLACE, and receive the 
ball intended for him in her own head.

But whether these suspicions are absurd or not, hit or miss, it is 
the advocate's duty, as it appears, to urge them.  He wants to make 
as unfavorable an impression as possible with regard to Peytel's 
character; he, therefore, must, for contrast's sake, give all sorts 
of praise to his victim, and awaken every sympathy in the poor 
fellow's favor.  Having done this, as far as lies in his power, 
having exaggerated every circumstance that can be unfavorable to 
Peytel, and given his own tale in the baldest manner possible--
having declared that Peytel is the murderer of his wife and 
servant, the Crown now proceeds to back this assertion, by showing 
what interested motives he had, and by relating, after its own 
fashion, the circumstances of his marriage.

They may be told briefly here.  Peytel was of a good family, of 
Macon, and entitled, at his mother's death, to a considerable 
property.  He had been educated as a notary, and had lately 
purchased a business, in that line, in Belley, for which he had 
paid a large sum of money; part of the sum, 15,000 francs, for 
which he had given bills, was still due.

Near Belley, Peytel first met Flicit Alcazar, who was residing 
with her brother-in-law, Monsieur de Montrichard; and, knowing that 
the young lady's fortune was considerable, he made an offer of 
marriage to the brother-in-law, who thought the match advantageous, 
and communicated on the subject with Flicit's mother, Madame 
Alcazar, at Paris.  After a time Peytel went to Paris, to press his 
suit, and was accepted.  There seems to have been no affectation of 
love on his side; and some little repugnance on the part of the 
lady, who yielded, however, to the wishes of her parents, and was 
married.  The parties began to quarrel on the very day of the 
marriage, and continued their disputes almost to the close of the 
unhappy connection.  Flicit was half blind, passionate, sarcastic,
clumsy in her person and manners, and ill educated; Peytel, a man of
considerable intellect and pretensions, who had lived for some time
at Paris, where he had mingled with good literary society.  The lady
was, in fact, as disagreeable a person as could well be, and the
evidence describes some scenes which took place between her and her
husband, showing how deeply she must have mortified and enraged him.

A charge very clearly made out against Peytel, is that of dishonesty;
he procured from the notary of whom he bought his place an
acquittance in full, whereas there were 15,000 francs owing, as we
have seen.  He also, in the contract of marriage, which was to have
resembled, in all respects, that between Monsieur Broussais and
another Demoiselle Alcazar, caused an alteration to be made in his
favor, which gave him command over his wife's funded property,
without furnishing the guarantees by which the other son-in-law was
bound.  And, almost immediately after his marriage, Peytel sold out
of the funds a sum of 50,000 francs, that belonged to his wife, and
used it for his own purposes.

About two months after his marriage, PEYTEL PRESSED HIS WIFE TO 
MAKE HER WILL.  He had made his, he said, leaving everything to 
her, in case of his death: after some parley, the poor thing 
consented.*  This is a cruel suspicion against him; and Mr. 
Substitute has no need to enlarge upon it.  As for the previous 
fact, the dishonest statement about the 15,000 francs, there is 
nothing murderous in that--nothing which a man very eager to make 
a good marriage might not do.  The same may be said of the 
suppression, in Peytel's marriage contract, of the clause to be 
found in Broussais's, placing restrictions upon the use of the 
wife's money.  Mademoiselle d'Alcazar's friends read the contract 
before they signed it, and might have refused it, had they so 
pleased.


* "Peytel," says the act of accusation, "did not fail to see the 
danger which would menace him, if this will (which had escaped the 
magistrates in their search of Peytel's papers) was discovered.  
He, therefore, instructed his agent to take possession of it, which 
he did, and the fact was not mentioned for several months 
afterwards.  Peytel and his agent were called upon to explain the 
circumstance, but refused, and their silence for a long time 
interrupted the 'instruction'" (getting up of the evidence).  "All 
that could be obtained from them was an avowal, that such a will 
existed, constituting Peytel his wife's sole legatee; and a 
promise, on their parts, to produce it before the court gave its 
sentence."  But why keep the will secret?  The anxiety about it was 
surely absurd and unnecessary: the whole of Madame Peytel's family 
knew that such a will was made.  She had consulted her sister 
concerning it, who said--"If there is no other way of satisfying 
him, make the will;" and the mother, when she heard of it, cried 
out--"Does he intend to poison her?"


After some disputes, which took place between Peytel and his wife 
(there were continual quarrels, and continual letters passing 
between them from room to room), the latter was induced to write 
him a couple of exaggerated letters, swearing "by the ashes of her 
father" that she would be an obedient wife to him, and entreating 
him to counsel and direct her.  These letters were seen by members 
of the lady's family, who, in the quarrels between the couple, 
always took the husband's part.  They were found in Peytel's 
cabinet, after he had been arrested for the murder, and after he 
had had full access to all his papers, of which he destroyed or 
left as many as he pleased.  The accusation makes it a matter of 
suspicion against Peytel, that he should have left these letters of 
his wife's in a conspicuous situation.

"All these circumstances," says the accusation, "throw a frightful 
light upon Peytel's plans.  The letters and will of Madame Peytel 
are in the hands of her husband.  Three months pass away, and this 
poor woman is brought to her home, in the middle of the night, with 
two balls in her head, stretched at the bottom of her carriage, by 
the side of a peasant."

"What other than Sebastian Peytel could have committed this 
murder?--whom could it profit?--who but himself had an odious chain 
to break, and an inheritance to receive?  Why speak of the 
servant's projected robbery?  The pistols found by the side of 
Louis's body, the balls bought by him at Macon, and those 
discovered at Belley among his effects, were only the result of a 
perfidious combination.  The pistol, indeed, which was found on the 
hill of Darde, on the night of the 1st of November, could only have 
belonged to Peytel, and must have been thrown by him, near the body 
of his domestic, with the paper which had before enveloped it.  
Who had seen this pistol in the hands of Louis?  Among all the 
gendarmes, work-women, domestics, employed by Peytel and his 
brother-in-law, is there one single witness who had seen this 
weapon in Louis's possession?  It is true that Madame Peytel did, 
on one occasion, speak to M. de Montrichard of a pistol; which had 
nothing to do, however, with that found near Louis Rey."

Is this justice, or good reason?  Just reverse the argument, and 
apply it to Rey.  "Who but Rey could have committed this murder?--
who but Rey had a large sum of money to seize upon?--a pistol is 
found by his side, balls and powder in his pocket, other balls in 
his trunks at home.  The pistol found near his body could not, 
indeed, have belonged to Peytel: did any man ever see it in his 
possession?  The very gunsmith who sold it, and who knew Peytel, 
would he not have known that he had sold him this pistol?  At his 
own house, Peytel has a collection of weapons of all kinds; 
everybody has seen them--a man who makes such collections is 
anxious to display them.  Did any one ever see this weapon?--Not 
one.  And Madame Peytel did, in her lifetime, remark a pistol in 
the valet's possession.  She was short-sighted, and could not 
particularize what kind of pistol it was; but she spoke of it to 
her husband and her brother-in-law."  This is not satisfactory, if 
you please; but, at least, it is as satisfactory as the other set 
of suppositions.  It is the very chain of argument which would have 
been brought against Louis Rey by this very same compiler of the 
act of accusation, had Rey survived, instead of Peytel, and had he, 
as most undoubtedly would have been the case, been tried for the 
murder.

This argument was shortly put by Peytel's counsel:--"if Peytel had 
been killed by Rey in the struggle, would you not have found Rey 
guilty of the murder of his master and mistress?"  It is such a 
dreadful dilemma, that I wonder how judges and lawyers could have 
dared to persecute Peytel in the manner which they did.

After the act of accusation, which lays down all the suppositions 
against Peytel as facts, which will not admit the truth of one of 
the prisoner's allegations in his own defence, comes the trial.  
The judge is quite as impartial as the preparer of the indictment, 
as will be seen by the following specimens of his interrogatories:--

Judge.  "The act of accusation finds in your statement 
contradictions, improbabilities, impossibilities.  Thus your 
domestic, who had determined to assassinate you, in order to rob 
you, and who MUST HAVE CALCULATED UPON THE CONSEQUENCE OF A 
FAILURE, had neither passport nor money upon him.  This is very 
unlikely; because he could not have gone far with only a single 
halfpenny, which was all he had."

Prisoner.  "My servant was known, and often passed the frontier 
without a passport."

Judge.  "YOUR DOMESTIC HAD TO ASSASSINATE TWO PERSONS, and had no 
weapon but a single pistol.  He had no dagger; and the only thing 
found on him was a knife."

Prisoner.  "In the car there were several turner's implements, 
which he might have used."

Judge.  "But he had not those arms upon him, because you pursued 
him immediately.  He had, according 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?"

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  bout portant, 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."

Prisoner.  "The contrary will be shown by the witnesses called for 
the purpose."

Judge.  "IT IS A VERY UNLUCKY COMBINATION FOR YOU that these balls, 
which went, you say, from the same pistol, should have taken two 
different directions."

Prisoner.  "I can't dispute about the various combinations 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?"

        .        .        .        .        .        .

Judge.  "You deny the statements of the witnesses:" (they related 
to Peytel's demeanor and behavior, which the judge wishes to show 
were very unusual;--and what if they were?)  "Here, however, are 
some mute witnesses, whose testimony, you will not perhaps refuse.  
Near Louis Rey's body was found a horse-cloth, a pistol, and a 
whip. . . . .  Your domestic must have had this cloth upon him when 
he went to assassinate you: it was wet and heavy.  An assassin 
disencumbers himself of anything that is likely to impede him, 
especially when he is going to struggle with a man as young as 
himself."

Prisoner.  "My servant had, I believe, this covering on his body; 
it might be useful to him to keep the priming of his pistol dry."

The president caused the cloth to be opened, and showed that there 
was no hook, or tie, by which it could be held together; and that 
Rey must have held it with one hand, and, in the other, his whip, 
and the pistol with which he intended to commit the crime; which 
was impossible.

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 
coming 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 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?


* 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.


"Your domestic ran straight forward, instead of taking to the 
woods, by the side of the rood: this is very unlikely."  How does 
his worship know?  Can any judge, however enlightened, tell the 
exact road that a man will take, who has just missed a coup of 
murder, and is pursued by a man who is firing pistols at him?  And 
has a judge a right to instruct a jury in this way, as to what they 
shall, or shall not, believe?

"You have to run after an active man, who has the start of you: to 
jump out of a carriage; to take your pistols; and THEN, your 
hammer.  THIS IS IMPOSSIBLE."  By heavens! does it not make a man's 
blood boil, to read such blundering, blood-seeking sophistry?  This 
man, when it suits him, shows that Rey would be slow in his 
motions; and when it suits him, declares that Rey ought to be 
quick; declares ex cathedr, what pace Rey should go, and what 
direction he should take; shows, in a breath, that he must have run 
faster than Peytel; and then, that he could not run fast, because 
the cloak clogged him; settles how he is to be dressed when he 
commits a murder, and what money he is to have in his pocket; gives 
these impossible suppositions to the jury, and tells them that the 
previous statements are impossible; and, finally, informs them of 
the precise manner in which Rey must have stood holding his horse-
cloth in one hand, his whip and pistol in the other, when he made 
the supposed attempt at murder.  Now, what is the size of a horse-
cloth?  Is it as big as a pocket-handkerchief?  Is there no 
possibility that it might hang over one shoulder; that the whip 
should be held under that very arm?  Did you never see a carter so 
carry it, his hands in his pockets all the while?  Is it monstrous, 
abhorrent to nature, that a man should fire a pistol from under a 
cloak on a rainy day?--that he should, after firing the shot, be 
frightened, and run; run straight before him, with the cloak on his 
shoulders, and the weapon in his hand?  Peytel's story is possible, 
and very possible; it is almost probable.  Allow that Rey had the 
cloth on, and you allow that he must have been clogged in his 
motions; that Peytel may have come up with him--felled him with a 
blow of the hammer; the doctors say that he would have so fallen by 
one blow--he would have fallen on his face, as he was found: the 
paper might have been thrust into his breast, and tumbled out as he 
fell.  Circumstances far more impossible have occurred ere this; 
and men have been hanged for them, who were as innocent of the 
crime laid to their charge as the judge on the bench, who convicted 
them.

In like manner, Peytel may not have committed the crime charged to 
him; and Mr. Judge, with his arguments as to possibilities and 
impossibilities,--Mr. Public Prosecutor, with his romantic 
narrative and inflammatory harangues to the jury,--may have used 
all these powers to bring to death an innocent man.  From the 
animus with which the case had been conducted from beginning to 
end, it was easy to see the result.  Here it is, in the words of 
the provincial paper:--


BOURG, 28 October, 1839.

"The condemned Peytel has just undergone his punishment, which took 
place four days before the anniversary of his crime.  The terrible 
drama of the bridge of Andert, which cost the life of two persons, 
has just terminated on the scaffold.  Mid-day had just sounded on 
the clock of the Palais: the same clock tolled midnight when, on 
the 30th of August, his sentence was pronounced.

"Since the rejection of his appeal in Cassation, on which his 
principal hopes were founded, Peytel spoke little of his petition 
to the King.  The notion of transportation was that which he seemed 
to cherish most.  However, he made several inquiries from the 
gaoler of the prison, when he saw him at meal-time, with regard to 
the place of execution, the usual hour, and other details on the 
subject.  From that period, the words 'Champ de Foire' (the fair-
field, where the execution was to be held), were frequently used by 
him in conversation.

"Yesterday, the idea that the time had arrived seemed to be more 
strongly than ever impressed upon him; especially after the 
departure of the cur, who latterly has been with him every day.  
The documents connected with the trial had arrived in the morning.  
He was ignorant of this circumstance, but sought to discover from 
his guardians what they tried to hide from him; and to find out 
whether his petition was rejected, and when he was to die.

"Yesterday, also, he had written to demand the presence of his 
counsel, M. Margerand, in order that he might have some 
conversation with him, and regulate his affairs, before he ----; he 
did not write down the word, but left in its place a few points of 
the pen.

"In the evening, whilst he was at supper, he begged earnestly to be 
allowed a little wax-candle, to finish what he was writing: 
otherwise, he said, TIME MIGHT FAIL.  This was a new, indirect 
manner of repeating his ordinary question.  As light, up to that 
evening, had been refused him, it was thought best to deny him in 
this, as in former instances; otherwise his suspicions might have 
been confirmed.  The keeper refused his demand.

"This morning, Monday, at nine o'clock, the Greffier of the Assize 
Court, in fulfilment of the painful duty which the law imposes upon 
him, came to the prison, in company with the cur 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 cur, who 
did not thenceforth quit him.  Peytel breakfasted at ten o'clock.

"At eleven, a piquet of mounted gendarmerie and infantry took their 
station upon the place before the prison, where a great concourse 
of people had already assembled.  An open car was at the door.  
Before he went out Peytel asked the gaoler for a looking-glass; 
and having examined his face for a moment, said, 'At least, the 
inhabitants of Bourg will see that I have not grown thin.'

"As twelve o'clock sounded, the prison gates opened, an aide 
appeared, followed by Peytel, leaning on the arm of the cur.  
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 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 cur, 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 remains, and had them 
immediately buried, privately: and thus the unfortunate man's head 
escaped the modellers in wax, several of whom had arrived to take 
an impression of it."

Down goes the axe; the poor wretch's head rolls gasping into the 
basket; the spectators go home, pondering; and Mr. Executioner and 
his aides have, in half an hour, removed all traces of the august 
sacrifice, and of the altar on which it had been performed.  Say, 
Mr. Briefless, do you think that any single person, meditating 
murder, would be deterred therefrom by beholding this--nay, a 
thousand more executions?  It is not for moral improvement, as I 
take it, nor for opportunity to make appropriate remarks upon the 
punishment of crime, that people make a holiday of a killing-day, 
and leave their homes and occupations, to flock and witness the 
cutting off of a head.  Do we crowd to see Mr. Macready in the new 
tragedy, or Mademoiselle Ellssler in her last new ballet and flesh-
colored stockinnet pantaloons, out of a pure love of abstract 
poetry and beauty; or from a strong notion that we shall be 
excited, in different ways, by the actor and the dancer?  And so, 
as we go to have a meal of fictitious terror at the tragedy, of 
something more questionable in the ballet, we go for a glut of 
blood to the execution.  The lust is in every man's nature, more or 
less.  Did you ever witness a wrestling or boxing match?  The first 
clatter of the kick on the shins, or the first drawing of blood, 
makes the stranger shudder a little; but soon the blood is his 
chief enjoyment, and he thirsts for it with a fierce delight.  It 
is a fine grim pleasure that we have in seeing a man killed; and I 
make no doubt that the organs of destructiveness must begin to 
throb and swell as we witness the delightful savage spectacle.

Three or four years back, when Fieschi and Lacenaire were executed, 
I made attempts to see the execution of both; but was disappointed 
in both cases.  In the first instance, the day for Fieschi's death 
was, purposely, kept secret; and he was, if I remember rightly, 
executed at some remote quarter of the town.  But it would have 
done a philanthropist good, to witness the scene which we saw on 
the morning when his execution did NOT take place.

It was carnival time, and the rumor had pretty generally been 
carried abroad that he was to die on that morning.  A friend, who 
accompanied me, came many miles, through the mud and dark, in order 
to be in at the death.  We set out before light, floundering 
through the muddy Champs Elyses; where, besides, were many other 
persons floundering, and all bent upon the same errand.  We passed 
by the Concert of Musard, then held in the Rue St. Honor; and 
round this, in the wet, a number of coaches were collected.  The 
ball was just up, and a crowd of people in hideous masquerade, 
drunk, tired, dirty, dressed in horrible old frippery, and daubed 
with filthy rouge, were trooping out of the place: tipsy women and 
men, shrieking, jabbering, gesticulating, as French will do; 
parties swaggering, staggering forwards, arm in arm, reeling to and 
fro across the street, and yelling songs in chorus: hundreds of 
these were bound for the show, and we thought ourselves lucky in 
finding a vehicle to the execution place, at the Barrire d'Enfer.  
As we crossed the river and entered the Enfer Street, crowds of 
students, black workmen, and more drunken devils from more carnival 
balls, were filling it; and on the grand place there were thousands 
of these assembled, looking out for Fiaschi and his cortge.  We 
waited and waited; but alas! no fun for us that morning: no throat-
cutting; no august spectacle of satisfied justice; and the eager 
spectators were obliged to return, disappointed of their expected 
breakfast of blood.  It would have been a fine scene, that 
execution, could it but have taken place in the midst of the mad 
mountebanks and tipsy strumpets who had flocked so far to witness 
it, wishing to wind up the delights of their carnival by a 
bonnebouche of a murder.

The other attempt was equally unfortunate.  We arrived too late on 
the ground to be present at the execution of Lacenaire and his co-
mate in murder, Avril.  But as we came to the ground (a gloomy 
round space, within the barrier--three roads lead to it; and, 
outside, you see the wine-shops and restaurateurs' of the barrier 
looking gay and inviting,)--as we came to the ground, we only 
found, in the midst of it, a little pool of ice, just partially 
tinged with red.  Two or three idle street-boys were dancing and 
stamping about this pool; and when I asked one of them whether the 
execution had taken place, he began dancing more madly than ever, 
and shrieked out with a loud fantastical, theatrical voice, "Venez 
tous Messieurs et Dames, voyez ici le sang du monstre Lacenaire, et 
de son compagnon he tratre 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 misfortunes of others, as the philosopher has told us.  Remark 
what a good breakfast you eat after an execution; how pleasant it 
is to cut jokes after it, and upon it.  This merry, pleasant mood 
is brought on by the blood tonic.

But, for God's sake, if we are to enjoy this, let us do so in 
moderation; and let us, at least, be sure of a man's guilt before 
we murder him.  To kill him, even with the full assurance that he 
is guilty is hazardous enough.  Who gave you the right to do so?--
you, who cry out against suicides, as impious and contrary to 
Christian law?  What use is there in killing him?  You deter no one 
else from committing the crime by so doing: you give us, to be 
sure, half an hour's pleasant entertainment; but it is a great 
question whether we derive much moral profit from the sight.  If 
you want to keep a murderer from farther inroads upon society, are 
there not plenty of hulks and prisons, God wot; treadmills, 
galleys, and houses of correction?  Above all, as in the case of 
Sebastian Peytel and his family, there have been two deaths 
already; was a third death absolutely necessary? and, taking the 
fallibility of judges and lawyers into his heart, and remembering 
the thousand instances of unmerited punishment that have been 
suffered, upon similar and stronger evidence before, can any man 
declare, positively and upon his oath, that Peytel was guilty, and 
that this was not THE THIRD MURDER IN THE FAMILY?




FOUR IMITATIONS OF BRANGER


LE ROI D'YVETOT.


Il tait un roi d'Yvetot,
  Peu connu dans l'histoire;
Se levant tard, se couchant tt,
  Dormant fort bien sans gloire,
Et couronn par Jeanneton
D'un simple bonnet de coton,
             Dit-on.
    Oh! oh! oh! oh! ah! ah! ah! ah!
    Quel bon petit roi c'tait l!
             La, la.

Il fesait ses quatre repas
  Dans son palais de chaume,
Et sur un ne, pas  pas,
  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.  
             La, la.

Il n'avait de got onreux 
  Qu'une soif un peu vive;
Mais, en rendant son peuple heureux,
  Il faux bien qu'un roi vive.
Lui-mme  table, et sans suppt,
Sur chaque muid levait un pot
             D'impt.
    Oh! oh! oh! oh! ah! ah! ah! ah! &c.  
             La, la.

Aux filles de bonnes maisons 
  Comme il avait su plaire,
Ses sujets avaient cent raisons
  De le nommer leur pre:
D'ailleurs il ne levait de ban
Que pour tirer quatre fois l'an
             Au blanc.
    Oh! oh! oh! oh! ah! ah! ah! ah! &c.  
             La, la.

Il n'agrandit point ses tats, 
  Fut un voisin commode,
Et, modle des potentats,
  Prit le plaisir pour code.
Ce n'est que lorsqu'il expira,
Que le peuple qui l'enterra
             Pleura.
    Oh! oh! oh! oh! ah! ah! ah! ah! &c.  
             La, la.

On conserve encor le portrait
  De ce digne et bon prince;
C'est l'enseigne d'un cabaret
  Fameux dans la province.
Les jours de fte, bien souvent, 
La foule s'crie en buvant
             Devant:
    Oh! oh! oh! oh! ah! ah! ah! ah! 
    Quel bon petit roi c'tait l!
             La, la.



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. 
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.

All in a fine mud palace,--each day he took four meals,
And for a guard of honor,--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 neighbor,--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 l'asile o ma jeunesse
De la misre a subi les leons.
J'avais vingt ans, une folle matresse,
De francs amis et l'amour des chansons
Bravant le monde et les sots et les sages,
Sans avenir, riche de mon printemps,
Leste et joyeux je montais six tages.
Dans un grenier qu'on est bien  vingt ans!

C'est un grenier, point ne veux qu'on l'ignore.
L fut mon lit, bien chtif et bien dur;
L fut ma table; et je retrouve encore
Trois pieds d'un vers charbonns sur le mur.
Apparaissez, plaisirs de mon bel ge,
Que d'un coup d'aile a fustigs le temps,
Vingt fois pour vous j'ai mis ma montre en gage.
Dans un grenier qu'on est bien  vingt ans!

Lisette ici doit surtout apparatre,
Vive, jolie, avec un frais chapeau;
Dj sa main  l'troite fentre
Suspend son schal, en guise de rideau.
Sa robe aussi va parer ma couchette;
Respecte, Amour, ses plis longs et flottans.
J'ai su depuis qui payait sa toilette.
Dans un grenier qu'on est bien  vingt ans!

A table un jour, jour de grande richesse,
De mes amis les voix brillaient en choeur,
Quand jusqu'ici monte un cri d'allgresse:
A Marengo Bonaparte est vainqueur.
Le canon gronde; un autre chant commence;
Nous clbrons tant de faits clatans.
Les rois jamais n'envahiront la France.
Dans un grenier qu'on est bien  vingt ans!

Quittons ce toit o ma raison s'enivre.
Oh! qu'ils sont loin ces jours si regretts!
J'changerais ce qu'il me reste  vivre
Contre un des mois qu'ici Dieu m'a compts,
Pour rver gloire, amour, plaisir, folie,
Pour dpenser sa vie en peu d'instans,
D'un long espoir pour la voir embellie,
Dans un grenier qu'on est bien  vingt ans!



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 days 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:
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 donn,
En un temps de misres
Roger-Bontemps est n.
Vivre obscur  sa guise,
Narguer les mcontens:
Eh gai! c'est la devise
Du gros Roger-Bontemps.

Du chapeau de son pre
Coff dans le grands jours,
De roses ou de lierre
Le rajeunir toujours;
Mettre un manteau de bure,
Vieil ami de vingt ans;
Eh gai! c'est la parure
Du gros Roger-Bontemps.

Possder dans sa hutte
Une table, un vieux lit,
Des cartes, une flte,
Un broc que Dieu remplit;
Un portrait de matresse,
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'lite,
Sabler ceux du canton:
Prfrer 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 pre,  ta bont;
De ma philosophie
Pardonne le gat
Que ma saison dernire
Soit encore un printemps;
Eh gai! c'est la prire
Du gros Roger-Bontemps.

Vous, pauvres pleins d'envie,
Vous, riches dsireux,
Vous, dont le char dvie
Aprs un cours heureux;
Vous, qui perdrez peut-tre
Des titres clatans,
Eh gai! prenez pour matre
Le gros Roger Bontemps.



JOLLY JACK.


When fierce political 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.

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 drank 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 Miller read, 
  While others studied Cobbett.
His talk it was of feast and fun; 
  His guide the Almanack;
From youth to age thus gayly run 
  The life of Jolly Jack.

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, wellnigh dead, and full time too: 
old tragedies, in which half a dozen characters appear, and spout 
sonorous Alexandrines for half a dozen hours.  The fair Rachel has 
been trying to revive this genre, and to untomb Racine; but be not 
alarmed, Racine will never come to life again, and cause audiences 
to weep as of yore.  Madame Rachel can only galvanize the corpse, 
not revivify it.  Ancient French tragedy, red-heeled, patched, and 
be-periwigged, lies in the grave; and it is only the ghost of it 
that we see, which the fair Jewess has raised.  There are classical 
comedies in verse, too, wherein the knavish valets, rakish heroes, 
stolid old guardians, and smart, free-spoken serving-women, 
discourse in Alexandrines, as loud as the Horaces or the Cid.  An 
Englishman will seldom reconcile himself to the roulement of the 
verses, and the painful recurrence of the rhymes; for my part, I 
had rather go to Madame Saqui's or see Deburau dancing on a rope: 
his lines are quite as natural and poetical.

Then there is the comedy of the day, of which Monsieur Scribe is 
the father.  Good heavens! with what a number of gay colonels, 
smart widows, and silly husbands has that gentleman peopled the 
play-books.  How that unfortunate seventh commandment has been 
maltreated by him and his disciples.  You will see four pieces, at 
the Gymnase, of a night; and so sure as you see them, four husbands 
shall be wickedly used.  When is this joke to cease?  Mon Dieu!  
Play-writers have handled it for about two thousand years, and the 
public, like a great baby, must have the tale repeated to it over 
and over again.

Finally, there is the Drama, that great monster which has sprung 
into life of late years; and which is said, but I don't believe a 
word of it, to have Shakspeare for a father.  If Monsieur Scribe's 
plays may be said to be so many ingenious examples how to break one 
commandment, the drame is a grand and general chaos of them all; 
nay, several crimes are added, not prohibited in the Decalogue, 
which was written before dramas were.  Of the drama, Victor Hugo 
and Dumas are the well-known and respectable guardians.  Every 
piece Victor Hugo has written, since "Hernani," has contained a 
monster--a delightful monster, saved by one virtue.  There is 
Triboulet, a foolish monster; Lucrce Borgia, a maternal monster; 
Mary Tudor, a religious monster; Monsieur Quasimodo, a humpback 
monster; and others, that might be named, whose monstrosities we 
are induced to pardon--nay, admiringly to witness--because they are 
agreeably mingled with some exquisite display of affection.  And, 
as the great Hugo has one monster to each play, the great Dumas 
has, ordinarily, half a dozen, to whom murder is nothing; common 
intrigue, and simple breakage of the before-mentioned commandment, 
nothing; but who live and move in a vast, delightful complication 
of crime, that cannot be easily conceived in England, much less 
described.

When I think over the number of crimes that I have seen Mademoiselle
Georges, for instance, commit, I am filled with wonder at her
greatness, and the greatness of the poets who have conceived these
charming horrors for her.  I have seen her make love to, and murder,
her sons, in the "Tour de Nesle."  I have seen her poison a company
of no less than nine gentlemen, at Ferrara, with an affectionate son
in the number; I have seen her, as Madame de Brinvilliers, kill off
numbers of respectable relations in the first four acts; and, at the
last, be actually burned at the stake, to which she comes shuddering,
ghastly, barefooted, and in a white sheet.  Sweet excitement of
tender sympathies!  Such tragedies are not so good as a real,
downright execution; but, in point of interest, the next thing to
it: with what a number of moral emotions do they fill the breast;
with what a hatred for vice, and yet a true pity and respect for
that grain of virtue that is to be found in us all: our bloody,
daughter-loving Brinvilliers; our warmhearted, poisonous Lucretia
Borgia; above all, what a smart appetite for a cool supper
afterwards, at the Caf 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 fictitious murders, rapes, adulteries, and other 
crimes, by which one has been interested and excited,--a man may 
take leave to be heartily ashamed of the manner in which he has 
spent his time; and of the hideous kind of mental intoxication in 
which he has permitted himself to indulge.

Nor are simple society outrages the only sort of crime in which the 
spectator of Paris plays has permitted himself to indulge; he has 
recreated himself with a deal of blasphemy besides, and has passed 
many pleasant evenings in beholding religion defiled and ridiculed.

Allusion has been made, in a former paper, to a fashion that lately 
obtained in France, and which went by the name of Catholic 
reaction; and as, in this happy country, fashion is everything, we 
have had not merely Catholic pictures and quasi religious books, 
but a number of Catholic plays have been produced, very edifying to 
the frequenters of the theatres or the Boulevards, who have learned 
more about religion from these performances than they have 
acquired, no doubt, in the whole of their lives before.  In the 
course of a very few years we have seen--"The Wandering Jew;" 
"Belshazzar's Feast;" "Nebuchadnezzar:" and the "Massacre of the 
Innocents;" "Joseph and his Brethren;" "The Passage of the Red 
Sea;" and "The Deluge."

The great Dumas, like Madame Sand before mentioned, has brought a 
vast quantity of religion before the foot-lights.  There was his 
famous tragedy of "Caligula," which, be it spoken to the shame of 
the Paris critics, was coldly received; nay, actually hissed, by 
them.  And why?  Because, says Dumas, it contained a great deal too 
much piety for the rogues.  The public, he says, was much more 
religious, and understood him at once.

"As for the critics," says he, nobly, "let those who cried out 
against the immorality of Antony and Margurite 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!

"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 declaration 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 remembered, is the characteristic of the modern 
French school (nay, of the English school too); and if the writer 
take the character of a remarkable scoundrel, it is ten to one but 
he turns out an amiable fellow, in whom we have all the warmest 
sympathy.  "Caligula" is killed at the end of the performance; 
Messalina is comparatively well-behaved; and the sacred part of the 
performance, the tabernacle-characters apart from the mere "vase" 
and "candlestick" personages, may be said to be depicted in the 
person of a Christian convert, Stella, who has had the good fortune 
to be converted by no less a person than Mary Magdalene, when she, 
Stella, was staying on a visit to her aunt, near Narbonne.


STELLA (Continuant.)                   Voil
Que je vois s'avancer, sans pilote et sans rames,
Une barque portant deux hommes et deux femmes,
Et, spectacle inou qui me ravit encor,
Tous quatre avaient au front une aurole d'or
D'o partaient des rayons de si vive lumire
Que je fus oblige  baisser la paupire;
Et, lorsque je rouvris les yeux avec effroi,
Les voyageurs divins taient auprs de moi.
Un jour de chacun d'eux et dans toute sa gloire
Je te raconterai la marveilleuse histoire,
Et tu l'adoreras, j'espre; en ce moment,
Ma mre, il te suffit de savoir seulement
Que tous quatre venaient du fond de la Syrie:
Un dit les avait bannis de leur patrie,
Et, se faisant bourreaux, des hommes irrits,
Sans avirons, sans eau, sans pain et garrots,
Sur une frle barque choue au rivage,
Les avaient  la mer pousss dans un orage.
Mais  peine l'esquif eut-il touch les flots
Qu'au cantique chant par les saints matelots,
L'ouragan replia ses ailes frmissantes,
Que la mer aplanit ses vagues mugissantes,
Et qu'un soleil plus pur, reparaissant aux cieux,
Enveloppa l'esquif d'un cercle radieux! . . .

JUNIA.--Mais c'tait un prodige.

STELLA.--                        Un miracle, ma mre!
Leurs fers tombrent seuls, l'eau cessa d'tre amre,
Et deux fois chaque jour le bateau fut couvert
D'une manne pareille  celle du dsert:
C'est ainsi que, pousss par une main cleste,
Je les vis aborder.

JUNIA.--             Oh! dis vte le reste!

STELLA.--A l'aube, trois d'entre eux quittrent la maison:
Marthe prit le chemin qui mne  Tarascon,
Lazare et Maximin celui de Massilie,
Et celle qui resta . . . . C'ETAIT LA PLUS JOLIE, (how truly French!)
Nous faisant appeler vers le milieu du jour,
Demanda si les monts ou les bois d'alentour
Cachaient quelque retraite inconnue et profonde,
Qui la pt sparer  tout jamais du monde. . . . . 
Aquila se souvint qu'il avait pntr
Dans un antre sauvage et de tous ignor,
Grotte creuse aux flancs de ces Alpes sublimes,
Ou l'aigle fait son aire au-dessus des abmes.
Il offrit cet asile, et ds le lendemain
Tous deux, pour l'y guider, nous tions en chemin.
Le soir du second jour nous touchmes sa base:
L, tombant  genoux dans une sainte extase,
Elle pria long-temps, puis vers l'antre inconnu,
Dnouant se chaussure, elle marcha pied nu.
Nos prires, nos cris restrent sans rponses:
Au milieu des cailloux, des pines, des ronces,
Nous la vmes monter, un bton  la main,
Et ce n'est qu'arrive au terme du chemin,
Qu'enfin elle tomba sans force et sans haleine . . . . 

JUNIA.--Comment la nommait-on, ma fille?

STELLA.--                                Madeleine.


Walking, says Stella, by the sea-shore, "A bark drew near, that had 
nor sail nor oar; two women and two men the vessel bore: each of 
that crew, 'twas wondrous to behold, wore round his head a ring of 
blazing gold; from which such radiance glittered all around, that I 
was fain to look towards the ground.  And when once more I raised 
my frightened eyne, before me stood the travellers divine; their 
rank, the glorious lot that each befell, at better season, mother, 
will I tell.  Of this anon: the time will come when thou shalt 
learn to worship as I worship now.  Suffice it, that from Syria's 
land they came; an edict from their country banished them.  Fierce, 
angry men had seized upon the four, and launched them in that 
vessel from the shore.  They launched these victims on the waters 
rude; nor rudder gave to steer, nor bread for food.  As the doomed 
vessel cleaves the stormy main, that pious crew uplifts a sacred 
strain; the angry waves are silent as it sings; the storm, awe-
stricken, folds its quivering wings.  A purer sun appears the 
heavens to light, and wraps the little bark in radiance bright.

"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 mountains near, there chanced to be some cavern lone 
and drear; where she might hide, for ever, from all men.  It 
chanced, my cousin knew of such a den; deep hidden in a mountain's 
hoary breast, on which the eagle builds his airy nest.  And thither 
offered he the saint to guide.  Next day upon the journey forth we 
hied; and came, at the second eve, with weary pace, unto the lonely 
mountain's rugged base.  Here the worn traveller, falling on her 
knee, did pray awhile in sacred ecstasy; and, drawing off her 
sandals from her feet, marched, naked, towards that desolate 
retreat.  No answer made she to our cries or groans; but walking 
midst the prickles and rude stones, a staff in hand, we saw her 
upwards toil; nor ever did she pause, nor rest the while, save at 
the entry of that savage den.  Here, powerless and panting, fell 
she then.

"JUNIA.--What was her name, my daughter?

"STELLA.                                 MAGDALEN."


Here the translator must pause--having no inclination 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 Mary and 
little angels, in blue, swinging censers before her!)--on earth, 
under the earth, and in a place still lower, but not mentionable to 
ears polite; and the plot, as it appears from a dialogue between a 
good and a bad angel, with which the play commences, turns upon a 
contest between these two worthies for the possession of the soul 
of a member of the family of Marana.

"Don Juan de Marana" not only resembles his namesake, celebrated by 
Mozart and Molire, in his peculiar successes among the ladies, but 
possesses further qualities which render his character eminently 
fitting for stage representation: he unites the virtues of Lovelace 
and Lacenaire; he blasphemes upon all occasions; he murders, at the 
slightest provocation, and without the most trifling remorse; he 
overcomes ladies of rigid virtue, ladies of easy virtue, and ladies 
of no virtue at all; and the poet, inspired by the contemplation of 
such a character, has depicted his hero's adventures and 
conversation with wonderful feeling and truth.

The first act of the play contains a half-dozen of murders and 
intrigues; which would have sufficed humbler genius than M. 
Dumas's, for the completion of, at least, half a dozen tragedies.  
In the second act our hero flogs his elder brother, and runs away 
with his sister-in-law; in the third, he fights a duel with a 
rival, and kills him: whereupon the mistress of his victim takes 
poison, and dies, in great agonies, on the stage.  In the fourth 
act, Don Juan, having entered a church for the purpose of carrying 
off a nun, with whom he is in love, is seized by the statue of one 
of the ladies whom he has previously victimized, and made to behold 
the ghosts of all those unfortunate persons whose deaths he has 
caused.

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 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 flaming sword in his 
hand--and asks: "Is there no voice in favor of Don Juan?" when lo! 
Don Juan's father (like one of those ingenious toys called "Jack-
in-the-box,") jumps up from his coffin, and demands grace for his 
son.

When Martha the nun returns, having prepared all things for her 
elopement, she finds Don Juan fainting upon the ground.--"I am no 
longer your husband," says he, upon coming to himself; "I am no 
longer Don Juan; I am Brother Juan the Trappist.  Sister Martha, 
recollect that you must die!"

This was a most cruel blow upon Sister Martha, who is no less a 
person than an angel, an angel in disguise--the good spirit of the 
house of Marana, who has gone to the length of losing her wings and 
forfeiting her place in heaven, in order to keep company with Don 
Juan on earth, and, if possible, to convert him.  Already, in her 
angelic character, she had exhorted him to repentance, but in vain; 
for, while she stood at one elbow, pouring not merely hints, but 
long sermons, into his ear, at the other elbow stood a bad spirit, 
grinning and sneering at all her pious counsels, and obtaining by 
far the greater share of the Don's attention.

In spite, however, of the utter contempt with which Don Juan treats 
her,--in spite of his dissolute courses, which must shock her 
virtue,--and his impolite neglect, which must wound her vanity, the 
poor creature (who, from having been accustomed to better company, 
might have been presumed to have had better taste), the unfortunate 
angel feels a certain inclination for the Don, and actually flies 
up to heaven to ask permission to remain with him on earth.

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,  qui le calice  la liqueur amre
      Fut si souvent offert,
Mre, que l'on nomma la douloureuse mre, 
      Tant vous avez souffert!

Vous, dont les yeux divins sur la terre des hommes 
      Ont vers plus de pleurs
Que vos pieds n'ont depuis, dans le ciel o nous sommes, 
      Fait clore de fleurs.

Vase d'lection, toile matinale, 
     Miroir de puret, 
Vous qui priez pour nous, d'une voix virginale, 
     La suprme bont;

A mon tour, aujourd'hui, bienheureuse Marie, 
     Je tombe  vos genoux;
Daignez donc m'couter, car c'est vous que je prie, 
     Vous qui priez pour nous.


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 votes ternelles, 
     Malgr moi, tend mon vol,
Soufflez sur mon toile et dtachez mes ailes,
     Pour m'enchainer 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 order to be 
satisfied as to the moral of this play: but is it not a very bitter 
satire upon the country, which calls itself the politest nation in 
the world, that the incidents, the indecency, the coarse blasphemy, 
and the vulgar wit of this piece, should find admirers among the 
public, and procure reputation for the author?  Could not the 
Government, which has re-established, in a manner, the theatrical 
censorship, and forbids or alters plays which touch on politics, 
exert the same guardianship over public morals?  The honest English 
reader, who has a faith in his clergyman, and is a regular 
attendant at Sunday worship, will not be a little surprised at the 
march of intellect among our neighbors across the Channel, and at 
the kind of consideration in which they hold their religion.  Here 
is a man who seizes upon saints and angels, merely to put sentiments
in their mouths which might suit a nymph of Drury Lane. He shows
heaven, in order that he may carry debauch into it; and avails
himself of the most sacred and sublime parts of our creed as a
vehicle for a scene-painter's skill, or an occasion for a handsome
actress to wear a new dress.

M. Dumas's piece of "Kean" is not quite so sublime; it was brought 
out by the author as a satire upon the French critics, who, to 
their credit be it spoken, had generally attacked him, and was 
intended by him, and received by the public, as a faithful 
portraiture of English manners.  As such, it merits special 
observation and praise.  In the first act you find a Countess and 
an Ambassadress, whose conversation relates purely to the great 
actor.  All the ladies in London are in love with him, especially 
the two present.  As for the Ambassadress, she prefers him to her 
husband (a matter of course in all French plays), and to a more 
seducing person still--no less a person than the Prince of Wales! 
who presently waits on the ladies, and joins in their conversation 
concerning Kean.  "This man," says his Royal Highness, "is the very 
pink of fashion.  Brummell is nobody when compared to him; and I 
myself only an insignificant private gentleman.  He has a 
reputation among ladies, for which I sigh in vain; and spends an 
income twice as great as mine."  This admirable historic touch at 
once paints the actor and the Prince; the estimation in which the 
one was held, and the modest economy for which the other was so 
notorious.

Then we have Kean, at a place called the Trou de Charbon, the "Coal 
Hole," where, to the edification of the public, he engages in a 
fisty combat with a notorious boxer.  This scene was received by 
the audience with loud exclamations of delight, and commented on, 
by the journals, as a faultless picture of English manners.  "The 
Coal Hole" being on the banks of the Thames, a nobleman--LORD 
MELBOURN!--has chosen the tavern as a rendezvous for a gang of 
pirates, who are to have their ship in waiting, in order to carry 
off a young lady with whom his lordship is enamored.  It need not 
be said that Kean arrives at the nick of time, saves the innocent 
Meess Anna, and exposes the infamy of the Peer.  A violent tirade 
against noblemen ensues, and Lord Melbourn slinks away, disappointed,
to meditate revenge.  Kean's triumphs continue through all the acts:
the Ambassadress falls madly in love with him; the Prince becomes
furious at his ill success, and the Ambassador dreadfully jealous.
They pursue Kean to his dressing-room at the theatre; where,
unluckily, the Ambassadress herself has taken refuge.  Dreadful
quarrels ensue; the tragedian grows suddenly mad upon the stage, and
so cruelly insults the Prince of Wales that his Royal Highness
determines to send HIM TO BOTANY BAY.  His sentence, however, is
commuted to banishment to New York; whither, of course, Miss Anna
accompanies him; rewarding him, previously, with her hand and twenty
thousand a year!

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's play behind a cloud, 
figures bodily in the piece of the Massacre of the Innocents, 
represented at Paris last year.  She appears under a different 
name, but the costume is exactly that of Carlo Dolce's Madonna; and 
an ingenious fable is arranged, the interest of which hangs upon 
the grand Massacre of the Innocents, perpetrated in the fifth act.  
One of the chief characters is Jean le Prcurseur, who threatens 
woe to Herod and his race, and is beheaded by orders of that 
sovereign.

In the Festin de Balthazar, we are similarly introduced to Daniel, 
and the first scene is laid by the waters of Babylon, where a 
certain number of captive Jews are seated in melancholy postures; a 
Babylonian officer enters, exclaiming, "Chantez nous quelques 
chansons de Jerusalem," and the request is refused in the language 
of the Psalm.  Belshazzar's Feast is given in a grand tableau, 
after Martin's picture.  That painter, in like manner, furnished 
scenes for the Deluge.  Vast numbers of schoolboys and children are 
brought to see these pieces; the lower classes delight in them.  
The famous Juif Errant, at the theatre of the Porte St. Martin, was 
the first of the kind, and its prodigious success, no doubt, 
occasioned the number of imitations which the other theatres have 
produced.

The taste of such exhibitions, of course, every English person will 
question; but we must remember the manners of the people among whom 
they are popular; and, if I may be allowed to hazard such an 
opinion, there is in every one of these Boulevard mysteries, a kind 
of rude moral.  The Boulevard writers don't pretend to "tabernacles"
and divine gifts, like Madame Sand and Dumas before mentioned.  If
they take a story from the sacred books, they garble it without
mercy, and take sad liberties with the text; but they do not deal in
descriptions of the agreeably wicked, or ask pity and admiration for
tender-hearted criminals and philanthropic murderers, as their
betters do.  Vice is vice on the Boulevard; and it is fine to hear
the audience, as a tyrant king roars out cruel sentences of death,
or a bereaved mother pleads for the life of her child, making their
remarks on the circumstances of the scene.  "Ah, le gredin!" growls
an indignant countryman.  "Quel monstre!" says a grisette, in a
fury.  You see very fat old men crying like babies, and, like
babies, sucking enormous sticks of barley-sugar.  Actors and audience
enter warmly into the illusion of the piece; and so especially are
the former affected, that at Franconi's, where the battles of the
Empire are represented, there is as regular gradation in the ranks
of the mimic army as in the real imperial legions.  After a man has
served, with credit, for a certain number of years in the line, he
is promoted to be an officer--an acting officer.  If he conducts
himself well, he may rise to be a Colonel or a General of Division;
if ill, he is degraded to the ranks again; or, worst degradation of
all, drafted into a regiment of Cossacks or Austrians.  Cossacks is
the lowest depth, however; nay, it is said that the men who perform
these Cossack parts receive higher wages than the mimic grenadiers
and old guard.  They will not consent to be beaten every night, even
in play; to be pursued in hundreds, by a handful of French; to fight
against their beloved Emperor.  Surely there is fine hearty virtue
in this, and pleasant child-like simplicity.

So that while the drama of Victor Hugo, Dumas, and the enlightened 
classes, is profoundly immoral and absurd, the DRAMA of the common 
people is absurd, if you will, but good and right-hearted.  I have 
made notes of one or two of these pieces, which all have good 
feeling and kindness in them, and which turn, as the reader will 
see, upon one or two favorite points of popular morality.  A drama 
that obtained a vast success at the Porte Saint Martin was "La 
Duchesse de la Vauballire."  The Duchess is the daughter of a poor 
farmer, who was carried off in the first place, and then married by 
M. le Duc de la Vauballire, a terrible rou, the farmer's 
landlord, and the intimate friend of Philippe d'Orlans, the Regent 
of France.

Now the Duke, in running away with the lady, intended to dispense 
altogether with ceremony, and make of Julie anything but his wife; 
but Georges, her father, and one Morisseau, a notary, discovered 
him in his dastardly act, and pursued him to the very feet of the 
Regent, who compelled the pair to marry and make it up.

Julie complies; but though she becomes a Duchess, her heart remains 
faithful to her old flame, Adrian, the doctor; and she declares 
that, beyond the ceremony, no sort of intimacy shall take place 
between her husband and herself.

Then the Duke begins to treat her in the most ungentleman-like 
manner: he abuses her in every possible way; he introduces improper 
characters into her house; and, finally, becomes so disgusted with 
her, that he determines to make away with her altogether.

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 instrumentality 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 
Vauballire; then another deed, by which it is proved that he was 
not the eldest son of old La Vauballire, the former Duke; then 
another deed, by which he shows that old La Vauballire (who seems 
to have been a disreputable old fellow) was a bigamist, and that, 
in consequence, the present man, styling himself Duke, is 
illegitimate; and finally, Morisseau brings forward another 
document, which proves that the REG'LAR Duke is no other than 
Adrian, the doctor!

Thus it is that love, law, and physic combined, triumph over the 
horrid machinations of this star-and-gartered libertine.

"Hermann l'Ivrogne" is another piece of the same order; and though 
not very refined, yet possesses considerable merit.  As in the case 
of the celebrated Captain Smith of Halifax, who "took to drinking 
ratafia, and thought of poor Miss Bailey,"--a woman and the bottle 
have been the cause of Hermann's ruin.  Deserted by his mistress, 
who has been seduced from him by a base Italian Count, Hermann, a 
German artist, gives himself entirely up to liquor and revenge: but 
when he finds that force, and not infidelity, have been the cause 
of his mistress's ruin, the reader can fancy the indignant ferocity 
with which he pursues the infame ravisseur.  A scene, which is 
really full of spirit, and excellently well acted, here ensues!  
Hermann proposes to the Count, on the eve of their duel, that the 
survivor should bind himself to espouse the unhappy Marie; but the 
Count declares himself to be already married, and the student, 
finding a duel impossible (for his object was to restore, at all 
events, the honor of Marie), now only thinks of his revenge, and 
murders the Count.  Presently, two parties of men enter Hermann's 
apartment: one is a company of students, who bring him the news 
that he has obtained the prize of painting; the other the 
policemen, who carry him to prison, to suffer the penalty of 
murder.

I could mention many more plays in which the popular morality is 
similiarly expressed.  The seducer, or rascal of the piece, is 
always an aristocrat,--a wicked count, or licentious marquis, who 
is brought to condign punishment just before the fall of the 
curtain.  And too good reason have the French people had to lay 
such crimes to the charge of the aristocracy, who are expiating 
now, on the stage, the wrongs which they did a hundred years since.  
The aristocracy is dead now; but the theatre lives upon traditions: 
and don't let us be too scornful at such simple legends as are 
handed down by the people from race to race.  Vulgar prejudice 
against the great it may be; but prejudice against the great is 
only a rude expression of sympathy with the poor; long, therefore, 
may fat piciers blubber over mimic woes, and honest proltaires 
shake their fists, shouting--"Gredin, sclrat, monstre de 
marquis!" and such republican cries.

Remark, too, another development of this same popular feeling of 
dislike against men in power.  What a number of plays and legends 
have we (the writer has submitted to the public, in the preeeding 
pages, a couple of specimens; one of French, and the other of 
Polish origin,) in which that great and powerful aristocrat, 
the Devil, is made to be miserably tricked, humiliated, and 
disappointed?  A play of this class, which, in the midst of all its 
absurdities and claptraps, had much of good in it, was called "Le 
Maudit des Mers."  Le Maudit is a Dutch captain, who, in the midst 
of a storm, while his crew were on their knees at prayers, 
blasphemed and drank punch; but what was his astonishment at 
beholding an archangel with a sword all covered with flaming resin, 
who told him that as he, in this hour of danger, was too daring, or 
too wicked, to utter a prayer, he never should cease roaming the 
seas until he could find some being who would pray to heaven for 
him!

Once only, in a hundred years, was the skipper allowed to land for 
this purpose; and this piece runs through four centuries, in as 
many acts, describing the agonies and unavailing attempts of the 
miserable Dutchman.  Willing to go any lengths in order to obtain 
his prayer, he, in the second act, betrays a Virgin of the Sun to a 
follower of Pizarro: and, in the third, assassinates the heroic 
William of Nassau; but ever before the dropping of the curtain, the 
angel and sword make their appearance--"Treachery," says the 
spirit, "cannot lessen thy punishment;--crime will not obtain thy 
release--A la mer!  la mer!" and the poor devil returns to the 
ocean, to be lonely, and tempest-tossed, and sea-sick for a hundred 
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 celestial vessel, with angels on the decks and "sweet little 
cherubs" fluttering about the shrouds and the poop, appear to 
receive him.

This piece was acted at Franconi's, where, for once, an angel-ship 
was introduced in place of the usual horsemanship.

One must not forget to mention here, how the English nation is 
satirized by our neighbors; who have some droll traditions 
regarding us.  In one of the little Christmas pieces produced at 
the Palais Royal (satires upon the follies of the past twelve 
months, on which all the small theatres exhaust their wit), the 
celebrated flight of Messrs. Green and Monck Mason was parodied, 
and created a good deal of laughter at the expense of John Bull.  
Two English noblemen, Milor Cricri and Milor Hanneton, appear as 
descending from a balloon, and one of them communicates to the 
public the philosophic observations which were made in the course 
of his arial 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 porter: at Dover, carried several miles in a tide of 
air, bitter cold, cherry-brandy; crossed over the Channel safely, 
and thought with pity of the poor people who were sickening in the 
steamboats below: more bottled porter: over Calais, dinner, roast-
beef of Old England; near Dunkirk,--night falling, lunar rainbow, 
brandy-and-water; night confoundedly thick; supper, nightcap of 
rum-punch, and so to bed.  The sun broke beautifully through the 
morning mist, as we boiled the kettle and took our breakfast over 
Cologne.  In a few more hours we concluded this memorable voyage, 
and landed safely at Weilburg, in good time for dinner."

The joke here is smart enough; but our honest neighbors make many 
better, when they are quite unconscious of the fun.  Let us leave 
plays, for a moment, for poetry, and take an instance of French 
criticism, concerning England, from the works of a famous French 
exquisite and man of letters.  The hero of the poem addresses his 
mistress--


Londres, tu le sais trop, en fait de capitale,
Est-ce que fit le ciel de plus froid et plus ple,
C'est la ville du gaz, des marins, du brouillard;
On s'y couche  minuit, et l'on s'y lve tard;
Ses raouts tant vants ne sont qu'une boxade,
Sur ses grands quais jamais chelle ou srnade,
Mais de volumineux bourgeois pris de porter
Qui passent sans lever le front  Westminster;
Et n'tait sa fort de mts perant la brume,
Sa tour dont  minuit le vieil oeil s'allume,
Et tes deux yeux, Zerline, illumins bien plus,
Je dirais que, ma foi, des romans que j'ai lus,
Il n'en est pas un seul, plus lourd, plus lthargique
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 gentleman who actually lived many 
months in England, as an attach to the embassy of M. de Polignac.  
He places the heroine of his tale in a petit rduit prs 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 cart, morne et couverte de givre, 
O se cache un htel, 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 dessche et meurt.  Dans la ville de Sterne, 
Rien qu'en voyant le peuple il a le mal de mer 
Il n'aime ni le Parc, gai comme une citerne, 
Ni le tir au pigeon, ni le soda-water.

Liston ne le fait plus sourciller!  Il rumine
Sur les trottoirs du Strand, droit comme un chiquier,
Contre le peuple anglais, les ngres, la vermine,
Et les mille cokneys du peuple boutiquier,

Contre tous les bas-bleus, contre les ptissires,
Les parieurs d'Epsom, le gin, le parlement,
La quaterly, le roi, la pluie et les libraires,
Dont il ne touche plus, hlas! un sou d'argent!

Et chaque gentleman lui dit: L'heureux pote!


"L'heureux pote" indeed!  I question if a poet in this wide world 
is so happy as M. de Beauvoir, or has made such wonderful 
discoveries.  "The bath of Asia, with green jalousies," in which 
the lady dwells; "the old hotel, with copper lions, in a lonely 
square;"--were ever such things heard of, or imagined, but by a 
Frenchman?  The sailors, the negroes, the vermin, whom he meets in 
the street,--how great and happy are all these discoveries!  Liston 
no longer makes the happy poet frown; and "gin," "cokneys," and the 
"quaterly" have not the least effect upon him!  And this gentleman 
has lived many months amongst us; admires Williams Shakspear, the 
"grave et vieux prophte," as he calls him, and never, for an 
instant, doubts that his description contains anything absurd!

I don't know whether the great Dumas has passed any time in 
England; but his plays show a similar intimate knowledge of our 
habits.  Thus in Kean, the stage-manager is made to come forward 
and address the pit, with a speech beginning, "My Lords and 
Gentlemen;" and a company of Englishwomen are introduced (at the 
memorable "Coal hole"), and they all wear PINAFORES; as if the 
British female were in the invariable habit of wearing this outer 
garment, or slobbering her gown without it.  There was another 
celebrated piece, enacted some years since, upon the subject of 
Queen Caroline, where our late adored sovereign, George, was made 
to play a most despicable part; and where Signor Bergami fought a 
duel with Lord Londonderry.  In the last act of this play, the 
House of Lords was represented, and Sir Brougham made an eloquent 
speech in the Queen's favor.  Presently the shouts of the mob were 
heard without; from shouting they proceeded to pelting; and 
pasteboard-brickbats and cabbages came flying among the 
representatives of our hereditary legislature.  At this unpleasant 
juncture, SIR HARDINGE, the Secretary-at-War, rises and calls in 
the military; the act ends in a general row, and the ignominious 
fall of Lord Liverpool, laid low by a brickbat from the mob!

The description of these scenes is, of course, quite incapable of 
conveying any notion of their general effect.  You must have the 
solemnity of the actors, as they Meess and Milor one another, and 
the perfect gravity and good faith with which the audience listen 
to them.  Our stage Frenchman is the old Marquis, with sword, and 
pigtail, and spangled court coat.  The Englishman of the French 
theatre has, invariably, a red wig, and almost always leather 
gaiters, and a long white upper Benjamin: he remains as he was 
represented in the old caricatures after the peace, when Vernet 
designed him.

And to conclude this catalogue of blunders: in the famous piece of 
the "Naufrage de la Meduse," the first act is laid on board an 
English ship-of-war, all the officers of which appeared in light 
blue or green coats (the lamp-light prevented our distinguishing 
the color accurately), and TOP-BOOTS!


Let us not attempt to deaden the force of this tremendous blow by 
any more remarks.  The force of blundering can go no further.  
Would a Chinese playwright or painter have stranger notions about 
the barbarians than our neighbors, who are separated from us but by 
two hours of salt water?




MEDITATIONS AT VERSAILLES.


The palace of Versailles has been turned into a bricabrac shop of 
late years, and its time-honored walls have been covered with many 
thousand yards of the worst pictures that eye ever looked on.  I 
don't know how many leagues of battles and sieges the unhappy 
visitor is now obliged to march through, amidst a crowd of 
chattering Paris cockneys, who are never tired of looking at the 
glories of the Grenadier Franais; to the chronicling of whose 
deeds this old palace of the old kings is now altogether devoted.  
A whizzing, screaming steam-engine rushes hither from Paris, 
bringing shoals of badauds in its wake.  The old coucous are all 
gone, and their place knows them no longer.  Smooth asphaltum 
terraces, tawdry lamps, and great hideous Egyptian obelisks, have 
frightened them away from the pleasant station they used to occupy 
under the trees of the Champs Elyses; and though the old coucous 
were just the most uncomfortable vehicles that human ingenuity ever 
constructed, one can't help looking back to the days of their 
existence with a tender regret; for there was pleasure then in the 
little trip of three leagues: and who ever had pleasure in a 
railway journey?  Does any reader of this venture to say that, on 
such a voyage, he ever dared to be pleasant?  Do the most hardened 
stokers joke with one another?  I don't believe it.  Look into 
every single car of the train, and you will see that every single 
face is solemn.  They take their seats gravely, and are silent, for 
the most part, during the journey; they dare not look out of 
window, for fear of being blinded by the smoke that comes whizzing 
by, or of losing their heads in one of the windows of the down 
train; they ride for miles in utter damp and darkness: through 
awful pipes of brick, that have been run pitilessly through the 
bowels of gentle mother earth, the cast-iron Frankenstein of an 
engine gallops on, puffing and screaming.  Does any man pretend to 
say that he ENJOYS the journey?--he might as well say that he 
enjoyed having his hair cut; he bears it, but that is all: he will 
not allow the world to laugh at him, for any exhibition of slavish 
fear; and pretends, therefore, to be at his ease; but he IS afraid: 
nay, ought to be, under the circumstances.  I am sure Hannibal or 
Napoleon would, were they locked suddenly into a car; there kept 
close prisoners for a certain number of hours, and whirled along at 
this dizzy pace.  You can't stop, if you would:--you may die, but 
you can't stop; the engine may explode upon the road, and up you go 
along with it; or, may be a bolter and take a fancy to go down a 
hill, or into a river: all this you must bear, for the privilege of 
travelling twenty miles an hour.

This little journey, then, from Paris to Versailles, that used to 
be so merry of old, has lost its pleasures since the disappearance 
of the coucous; and I would as lief have for companions the statues 
that lately took a coach from the bridge opposite the Chamber of 
Deputies, and stepped out in the court of Versailles, as the most 
part of the people who now travel on the railroad.  The stone 
figures are not a whit more cold and silent than these persons, who 
used to be, in the old coucous, so talkative and merry.  The 
prattling grisette and her swain from the Ecole de Droit; the huge 
Alsacian carabineer, grimly smiling under his sandy moustaches and 
glittering brass helmet; the jolly nurse, in red calico, who had 
been to Paris to show mamma her darling Lolo, or Auguste;--what 
merry companions used one to find squeezed into the crazy old 
vehicles that formerly performed the journey!  But the age of 
horseflesh is gone--that of engineers, economists, and calculators 
has succeeded; and the pleasure of coucoudom is extinguished for 
ever.  Why not mourn over it, as Mr. Burke did over his cheap 
defence of nations and unbought grace of life; that age of 
chivalry, which he lamented, propos of a trip to Versailles, 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 chambermaids to lovely Du Barri; and mighty 
princes rolled away, in gilt caroches, hot for the honor of 
lighting his Majesty to bed, or of presenting his stockings when he 
rose, or of holding his napkin when he dined.  Tailors, chandlers, 
tinmen, wretched hucksters, and greengrocers, are now established 
in the mansions of the old peers; small children are yelling at the 
doors, with mouths besmeared with bread and treacle; damp rags are 
hanging out of every one of the windows, steaming in the sun; 
oyster-shells, cabbage-stalks, broken crockery, old papers, lie 
basking in the same cheerful light.  A solitary water-cart goes 
jingling down the wide pavement, and spirts a feeble refreshment 
over the dusty, thirsty stones.

After pacing for some time through such dismal streets, we 
deboucher on the grande place; and before us lies the palace 
dedicated to all the glories of France.  In the midst of the great 
lonely plain this famous residence of King Louis looks low and 
mean.--Honored pile!  Time was when tall musketeers and gilded 
body-guards allowed none to pass the gate.  Fifty years ago, ten 
thousand drunken women from Paris broke through the charm; and now 
a tattered commissioner will conduct you through it for a penny, 
and lead you up to the sacred entrance of the palace.

We will not examine all the glories of France, as here they are 
portrayed in pictures and marble: catalogues are written about 
these miles of canvas, representing all the revolutionary battles, 
from Valmy to Waterloo,--all the triumphs of Louis XIV.--all the 
mistresses of his successor--and all the great men who have 
flourished since the French empire began.  Military heroes are 
most of these--fierce constables in shining steel, marshals in 
voluminous wigs, and brave grenadiers in bearskin caps; some dozens 
of whom gained crowns, principalities, dukedoms; some hundreds, 
plunder and epaulets; some millions, death in African sands, or in 
icy Russian plains, under the guidance, and for the good, of that 
arch-hero, Napoleon.  By far the greater part of "all the glories" 
of France (as of most other countries) is made up of these military 
men: and a fine satire it is on the cowardice of mankind, that they 
pay such an extraordinary homage to the virtue called courage; 
filling their history-books with tales about it, and nothing but 
it.

Let them disguise the place, however, as they will, and plaster the 
walls with bad pictures as they please, it will be hard to think of 
any family but one, as one traverses this vast gloomy edifice.  It 
has not been humbled to the ground, as a certain palace of Babel 
was of yore; but it is a monument of fallen pride, not less awful, 
and would afford matter for a whole library of sermons.  The cheap 
defence of nations expended a thousand millions in the erection of 
this magnificent dwelling-place.  Armies were employed, in the 
intervals of their warlike labors, to level hills, or pile them up; 
to turn rivers, and to build aqueducts, and transplant woods, and 
construct smooth terraces, and long canals.  A vast garden grew up 
in a wilderness, and a stupendous palace in the garden, and a 
stately city round the palace: the city was peopled with parasites, 
who daily came to do worship before the creator of these wonders--
the Great King.  "Dieu seul est grand," said courtly Massillon; but 
next to him, as the prelate thought, was certainly Louis, his 
vicegerent here upon earth--God's lieutenant-governor of the 
world,--before whom courtiers used to fall on their knees, and 
shade their eyes, as if the light of his countenance, like the sun, 
which shone supreme in heaven, the type of him, was too dazzling to 
bear.

Did ever the sun shine upon such a king before, in such a palace?--
or, rather, did such a king ever shine upon the sun?  When Majesty 
came out of his chamber, in the midst of his superhuman splendors, 
viz, in his cinnamon-colored coat, embroidered with diamonds; his 
pyramid of a wig,* his red-heeled shoes, that lifted him four inches 
from the ground, "that he scarcely seemed to touch;" when he came 
out, blazing upon the dukes and duchesses that waited his rising,--
what could the latter do, but cover their eyes, and wink, and 
tremble?  And did he not himself believe, as he stood there, on his 
high heels, under his ambrosial periwig, that there was something 
in him more than man--something above Fate?


* It is fine to think that, in the days of his youth, his Majesty 
Louis XIV. used to POWDER HIS WIG WITH GOLD-DUST.


This, doubtless, was he fain to believe; and if, on very fine days, 
from his terrace before his gloomy palace of Saint Germains, he 
could catch a glimpse, in the distance, of a certain white spire 
of St. Denis, where his race lay buried, he would say to his 
courtiers, with a sublime condescension, "Gentlemen, you must 
remember that I, too, am mortal."  Surely the lords in waiting 
could hardly think him serious, and vowed that his Majesty always 
loved a joke.  However, mortal or not, the sight of that sharp 
spire wounded his Majesty's eyes; and is said, by the legend, to 
have caused the building of the palace of Babel-Versailles.

In the year 1681, then, the great king, with bag and baggage,--with 
guards, cooks, chamberlains, mistresses, Jesuits, gentlemen, 
lackeys, Fnlons, Molires, Lauzuns, Bossuets, Villars, Villeroys, 
Louvois, Colberts,--transported himself to his new palace: the old 
one being left for James of England and Jaquette his wife, when 
their time should come.  And when the time did come, and James 
sought his brother's kingdom, it is on record that Louis hastened 
to receive and console him, and promised to restore, incontinently, 
those islands from which the canaille had turned him.  Between 
brothers such a gift was a trifle; and the courtiers said to one 
another reverently:* "The Lord said unto my Lord, Sit thou on my 
right hand, until I make thine enemies thy footstool."  There was 
no blasphemy in the speech: on the contrary, it was gravely said, 
by a faithful believing man, who thought it no shame to the latter, 
to compare his Majesty with God Almighty.  Indeed, the books of the 
time will give one a strong idea how general was this Louis-
worship.  I have just been looking at one, which was written by an 
honest Jesuit and Protg of Pre la Chaise, who dedicates a book 
of medals to the august Infants of France, which does, indeed, go 
almost as far in print.  He calls our famous monarch "Louis le 
Grand:--1, l'invincible; 2, le sage; 3, le conqurant; 4, la 
merveille de son sicle; 5, la terreur de ses ennemis; 6, l'amour 
de ses peuples; 7, l'arbitre de la paix et de la guerre; 8, 
l'admiration de l'univers; 9, et digne d'en tre le matre; 10, le 
modle d'un hros achev; 11, digne de l'immortalit, et de la 
vnration de tous les sicles!"


* I think it is in the amusing "Memoirs of Madame de Crequi" (a 
forgery, but a work remarkable for its learning and accuracy) that 
the above anecdote is related.


A pretty Jesuit declaration, truly, and a good honest judgment upon 
the great king!  In thirty years more--1.  The invincible had been 
beaten a vast number of times.  2.  The sage was the puppet of an 
artful old woman, who was the puppet of more artful priests.  
3.  The conqueror had quite forgotten his early knack of conquering.  
5.  The terror of his enemies (for 4, the marvel of his age, we 
pretermit, it being a loose term, that may apply to any person or 
thing) was now terrified by his enemies in turn.  6.  The love of 
his people was as heartily detested by them as scarcely any other 
monarch, not even his great-grandson, has been, before or since.  
7.  The arbiter of peace and war was fain to send superb 
ambassadors to kick their heels in Dutch shopkeepers' ante-
chambers.  8, is again a general term.  9.  The man fit to be 
master of the universe, was scarcely master of his own kingdom.  
10.  The finished hero was all but finished, in a very commonplace 
and vulgar way.  And 11.  The man worthy of immortality was just at 
the point of death, without a friend to soothe or deplore him; only 
withered old Maintenon to utter prayers at his bedside, and 
croaking Jesuits to prepare him,* with heaven knows what wretched 
tricks and mummeries, for his appearance in that Great Republic 
that lies on the other side of the grave.  In the course of his 
fourscore splendid miserable years, he never had but one friend, 
and he ruined and left her.  Poor La Vallire, what a sad tale is 
yours!  "Look at this Galerie des Glaces," cries Monsieur Vatout, 
staggering with surprise at the appearance of the room, two hundred 
and forty-two feet long, and forty high.  "Here it was that Louis 
displayed all the grandeur of royalty; and such was the splendor of 
his court, and the luxury of the times, that this immense room 
could hardly contain the crowd of courtiers that pressed around the 
monarch."  Wonderful! wonderful!  Eight thousand four hundred and 
sixty square feet of courtiers!  Give a square yard to each, and 
you have a matter of three thousand of them.  Think of three 
thousand courtiers per day, and all the chopping and changing of 
them for near forty years: some of them dying, some getting their 
wishes, and retiring to their provinces to enjoy their plunder; 
some disgraced, and going home to pine away out of the light of the 
sun;** new ones perpetually arriving,--pushing, squeezing, for 
their place, in the crowded Galerie des Glaces.  A quarter of a 
million of noble countenances, at the very least, must those 
glasses have reflected.  Rouge, diamonds, ribbons, patches, upon 
the faces of smiling ladies: towering periwigs, sleek shaven 
crowns, tufted moustaches, scars, and grizzled whiskers, worn by 
ministers, priests, dandies, and grim old commanders.--So many 
faces, O ye gods! and every one of them lies!  So many tongues, 
vowing devotion and respectful love to the great king in his six-
inch wig; and only poor La Vallire's amongst them all which had a 
word of truth for the dull ears of Louis of Bourbon.


* They made a Jesuit of him on his death-bed.

** 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.


"Quand j'aurai de la peine aux Carmlites," says unhappy Louise, 
about to retire from these magnificent courtiers and their grand 
Galerie des Glaces, "je me souviendrai de ce que ces gens l m'ont 
fait souffrir!"--A troop of Bossuets inveighing against the 
vanities of courts could not preach such an affecting sermon.  What 
years of anguish and wrong had the poor thing suffered, before 
these sad words came from her gentle lips!  How these courtiers 
have bowed and flattered, kissed the ground on which she trod, 
fought to have the honor of riding by her carriage, written 
sonnets, and called her goddess; who, in the days of her prosperity,
was kind and beneficent, gentle and compassionate to all; then (on a
certain day, when it is whispered that his Majesty hath cast the
eyes of his gracious affection upon another) behold three thousand
courtiers are at the feet of the new divinity.--"O divine Athenais!
what blockheads have we been to worship any but you.--THAT a
goddess?--a pretty goddess forsooth;--a witch, rather, who, for a
while, kept our gracious monarch blind!  Look at her: the woman
limps as she walks; and, by sacred Venus, her mouth stretches almost
to her diamond ear-rings?"*  The same tale may be told of many more
deserted mistresses; and fair Athenais de Montespan was to hear it
of herself one day.  Meantime, while La Vallire'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?


* A pair of diamond ear-rings, given by the King to La Vallire, 
caused much scandal; and some lampoons are extant, which impugn the 
taste of Louis XIV. for loving a lady with such an enormous mouth.


I have often liked to think about this strange character in the 
world, who moved in it, bearing about a full belief in his own 
infallibility; teaching his generals the art of war, his ministers 
the science of government, his wits taste, his courtiers dress; 
ordering deserts to become gardens, turning villages into palaces 
at a breath; and indeed the august figure of the man, as he towers 
upon his throne, cannot fail to inspire one with respect and awe:--
how grand those flowing locks appear; how awful that sceptre; how 
magnificent those flowing robes!  In Louis, surely, if in any one, 
the majesty of kinghood is represented.

But a king is not every inch a king, for all the poet may say; and 
it is curious to see how much precise majesty there is in that 
majestic figure of Ludovicus Rex.  In the Frontispiece, we have 
endeavored to make the exact calculation.  The idea of kingly 
dignity is equally strong in the two outer figures; and you see, at 
once, that majesty is made out of the wig, the high-heeled shoes, 
and cloak, all fleurs-de-lis bespangled.  As for the little lean, 
shrivelled, paunchy old man, of five feet two, in a jacket and 
breeches, there is no majesty in HIM at any rate; and yet he has 
just stepped out of that very suit of clothes.  Put the wig and 
shoes on him, and he is six feet high;--the other fripperies, and 
he stands before you majestic, imperial, and heroic!  Thus do 
barbers and cobblers make the gods that we worship: for do we not 
all worship him?  Yes; though we all know him to be stupid, 
heartless, short, of doubtful personal courage, worship and admire 
him we must; and have set up, in our hearts, a grand image of him, 
endowed with wit, magnanimity, valor, and enormous heroical 
stature.

And what magnanimous acts are attributed to him! or, rather, how 
differently do we view the actions of heroes and common men, and 
find that the same thing shall be a wonderful virtue in the former, 
which, in the latter, is only an ordinary act of duty.  Look at 
yonder window of the king's chamber;--one morning a royal cane was 
seen whirling out of it, and plumped among the courtiers and guard 
of honor below.  King Louis had absolutely, and with his own hand, 
flung his own cane out of the window, "because," said he, "I won't 
demean myself by striking a gentleman!"  O miracle of magnanimity!  
Lauzun was not caned, because he besought majesty to keep his 
promise,--only imprisoned for ten years in Pignerol, along with 
banished Fouquet;--and a pretty story is Fouquet's too.

Out of the window the king's august head was one day thrust, when 
old Cond was painfully toiling up the steps of the court below.  
"Don't hurry yourself, my cousin," cries magnanimity, "one who has 
to carry so many laurels cannot walk fast."  At which all the 
courtiers, lackeys, mistresses, chamberlains, Jesuits, and 
scullions, clasp their hands and burst into tears.  Men are 
affected by the tale to this very day.  For a century and three-
quarters, have not all the books that speak of Versailles, or Louis 
Quatorze, told the story?--"Don't hurry yourself, my cousin!"  O 
admirable king and Christian! what a pitch of condescension is 
here, that the greatest king of all the world should go for to say 
anything so kind, and really tell a tottering old gentleman, worn 
out with gout, age, and wounds, not to walk too fast!

What a proper fund of slavishness is there in the composition of 
mankind, that histories like these should be found to interest and 
awe them.  Till the world's end, most likely, this story will have 
its place in the history-books; and unborn generations will read 
it, and tenderly be moved by it.  I am sure that Magnanimity went 
to bed that night, pleased and happy, intimately convinced that he 
had done an action of sublime virtue, and had easy slumbers and 
sweet dreams,--especially if he had taken a light supper, and not 
too vehemently attacked his en cas de nuit.

That famous adventure, in which the en cas de nuit was brought into 
use, for the sake of one Poquelin alias Molire;--how often has it 
been described and admired?  This Poquelin, though king's valet-de-
chambre, was by profession a vagrant; and as such, looked coldly on 
by the great lords of the palace, who refused to eat with him.  
Majesty hearing of this, ordered his en cas de nuit to be placed on 
the table, and positively cut off a wing with his own knife and 
fork for Poquelin's use.  O thrice happy Jean Baptiste!  The king 
has actually sat down with him cheek by jowl, had the liver-wing of 
a fowl, and given Molire the gizzard; put his imperial legs under 
the same mahogany (sub iisdem trabibus).  A man, after such an 
honor, can look for little else in this world: he has tasted the 
utmost conceivable earthly happiness, and has nothing to do now but 
to fold his arms, look up to heaven, and sing "Nunc dimittis" and 
die.

Do not let us abuse poor old Louis on account of this monstrous 
pride; but only lay it to the charge of the fools who believed and 
worshipped it.  If, honest man, he believed himself to be almost a 
god, it was only because thousands of people had told him so--
people only half liars, too; who did, in the depths of their 
slavish respect, admire the man almost as much as they said they 
did.  If, when he appeared in his five-hundred-million coat, as he 
is said to have done, before the Siamese ambassadors, the courtiers 
began to shade their eyes and long for parasols, as if this 
Bourbonic sun was too hot for them; indeed, it is no wonder that he 
should believe that there was something dazzling about his person: 
he had half a million of eager testimonies to this idea.  Who was 
to tell him the truth?--Only in the last years of his life did 
trembling courtiers dare whisper to him, after much circumlocution, 
that a certain battle had been fought at a place called Blenheim, 
and that Eugene and Marlborough had stopped his long career of 
triumphs.

"On n'est plus heureux  notre ge," says the old man, to one of 
his old generals, welcoming Tallard after his defeat; and he 
rewards him with honors, as if he had come from a victory.  There 
is, if you will, something magnanimous in this welcome to his 
conquered general, this stout protest against Fate.  Disaster 
succeeds disaster; armies after armies march out to meet fiery 
Eugene and that dogged, fatal Englishman, and disappear in the 
smoke of the enemies' cannon.  Even at Versailles you may almost 
hear it roaring at last; but when courtiers, who have forgotten 
their god, now talk of quitting this grand temple of his, old Louis 
plucks up heart and will never hear of surrender.  All the gold and 
silver at Versailles he melts, to find bread for his armies: all 
the jewels on his five-hundred-million coat he pawns resolutely; 
and, bidding Villars go and make the last struggle but one, 
promises, if his general is defeated, to place himself at the head 
of his nobles, and die King of France.  Indeed, after a man, for 
sixty years, has been performing the part of a hero, some of the 
real heroic stuff must have entered into his composition, whether 
he would or not.  When the great Elliston was enacting the part of 
King George the Fourth, in the play of "The Coronation," at Drury 
Lane, the galleries applauded very loudly his suavity and majestic 
demeanor, at which Elliston, inflamed by the popular loyalty (and 
by some fermented liquor in which, it is said, he was in the habit 
of indulging), burst into tears, and spreading out his arms, 
exclaimed: "Bless ye, bless ye, my people!"  Don't let us laugh at 
his Ellistonian majesty, nor at the people who clapped hands and 
yelled "bravo!" in praise of him.  The tipsy old manager did really 
feel that he was a hero at that moment; and the people, wild with 
delight and attachment for a magnificent coat and breeches, surely 
were uttering the true sentiments of loyalty: which consists in 
reverencing these and other articles of costume.  In this fifth 
act, then, of his long royal drama, old Louis performed his part 
excellently; and when the curtain drops upon him, he lies, dressed 
majestically, in a becoming kingly attitude, as a king should.

The king his successor has not left, at Versailles, half so much 
occasion for moralizing; perhaps the neighboring Parc aux Cerfs 
would afford better illustrations of his reign.  The life of his 
great grandsire, the Grand Llama of France, seems to have 
frightened Louis the well-beloved; who understood that loneliness 
is one of the necessary conditions of divinity, and being of a 
jovial, companionable turn, aspired not beyond manhood.  Only in 
the matter of ladies did he surpass his predecessor, as Solomon did 
David.  War he eschewed, as his grandfather bade him; and his 
simple taste found little in this world to enjoy beyond the mulling 
of chocolate and the frying of pancakes.  Look, here is the room 
called Laboratoire du Roi, where, with his own hands, he made his 
mistress's breakfast:--here is the little door through which, from 
her apartments in the upper story, the chaste Du Barri came 
stealing down to the arms of the weary, feeble, gloomy old man.  
But of women he was tired long since, and even pancake-frying had 
palled upon him.  What had he to do, after forty years of reign;--
after having exhausted everything?  Every pleasure that Dubois 
could invent for his hot youth, or cunning Lebel could minister to 
his old age, was flat and stale; used up to the very dregs: every 
shilling in the national purse had been squeezed out, by Pompadour 
and Du Barri and such brilliant ministers of state.  He had found 
out the vanity of pleasure, as his ancestor had discovered the 
vanity of glory: indeed it was high time that he should die.  And 
die he did; and round his tomb, as round that of his grandfather 
before him, the starving people sang a dreadful chorus of curses, 
which were the only epitaphs for good or for evil that were raised 
to his memory.

As for the courtiers--the knights and nobles, the unbought grace of 
life--they, of course, forgot him in one minute after his death, as 
the way is.  When the king dies, the officer appointed opens his 
chamber window, and calling out into the court below, Le Roi est 
mort, breaks his cane, takes another and waves it, exclaiming, vive 
le Roi!  Straightway all the loyal nobles begin yelling vive le 
Roi! and the officer goes round solemnly and sets yonder great 
clock in the Cour de Marbre to the hour of the king's death.  This 
old Louis had solemnly ordained; but the Versailles clock was only 
set twice: there was no shouting of Vive le Roi when the successor 
of Louis XV. mounted to heaven to join his sainted family.

Strange stories of the deaths of kings have always been very 
recreating and profitable to us: what a fine one is that of the 
death of Louis XV., as Madame Campan tells it.  One night the 
gracious monarch came back ill from Trianon; the disease turned out 
to be the small-pox; so violent that ten people of those who had to 
enter his chamber caught the infection and died.  The whole court 
flies from him; only poor old fat Mesdames the King's daughters 
persist in remaining at his bedside, and praying for his soul's 
welfare.

On the 10th May, 1774, the whole court had assembled at the 
chteau; the oeil de Boeuf was full.  The Dauphin had determined to 
depart as soon as the king had breathed his last.  And it was 
agreed by the people of the stables, with those who watched in the 
king's room, that a lighted candle should be placed in a window, 
and should be extinguished as soon as he had ceased to live.  The 
candle was put out.  At that signal, guards, pages, and squires 
mounted on horseback, and everything was made ready for departure.  
The Dauphin was with the Dauphiness, waiting together for the news 
of the king's demise.  AN IMMENSE NOISE, AS IF OF THUNDER, WAS 
HEARD IN THE NEXT ROOM; it was the crowd of courtiers, who were 
deserting the dead king's apartment, in order to pay their court to 
the new power of Louis XVI.  Madame de Noailles entered, and was 
the first to salute the queen by her title of Queen of France, and 
begged their Majesties to quit their apartments, to receive the 
princes and great lords of the court desirous to pay their homage 
to the new sovereigns.  Leaning on her husband's arm, a handkerchief
to her eyes, in the most touching attitude, Marie Antoinette
received these first visits.  On quitting the chamber where the dead
king lay, the Duc de Villequier bade M. Anderville, first surgeon of
the king, to open and embalm the body: it would have been certain
death to the surgeon.  "I am ready, sir," said he; "but whilst I am
operating, you must hold the head of the corpse: your charge demands
it."  The Duke went away without a word, and the body was neither
opened nor embalmed.  A few humble domestics and poor workmen
watched by the remains, and performed the last offices to their
master.  The surgeons ordered spirits of wine to be poured into the
coffin.

They huddled the king's body into a post-chaise; and in this 
deplorable equipage, with an escort of about forty men, Louis the 
well-beloved was carried, in the dead of night, from Versailles to 
St.  Denis, and then thrown into the tomb of the kings of France!

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 10th of August, and the 
monarchy might have been his once more; but he is so tender-
hearted, that he lets his friends be murdered before his eyes 
almost: or, at least, when he has turned his back upon his duty and 
his kingdom, and has skulked for safety into the reporters' box, at 
the National Assembly.  There were hundreds of brave men who died 
that day, and were martyrs, if you will; poor neglected tenth-rate 
courtiers, for the most part, who had forgotten old slights and 
disappointments, and left their places of safety to come and die, 
if need were, sharing in the supreme hour of the monarchy.  
Monarchy was a great deal too humane to fight along with these, and 
so left them to the pikes of Santerre and the mercy of the men of 
the Sections.  But we are wandering a good ten miles from 
Versailles, and from the deeds which Louis XVI. performed there.

He is said to have been such a smart journeyman blacksmith, that he 
might, if Fate had not perversely placed a crown on his head, have 
earned a couple of louis every week by the making of locks and 
keys.  Those who will may see the workshop where he employed many 
useful hours: Madame Elizabeth was at prayers meanwhile; the queen 
was making pleasant parties with her ladies.  Monsieur the Count 
d'Artois was learning to dance on the tight-rope; and Monsieur de 
Provence was cultivating l'eloquence du billet and studying his 
favorite Horace.  It is said that each member of the august family 
succeeded remarkably well in his or her pursuits; big Monsieur's 
little notes are still cited.  At a minuet or syllabub, poor 
Antoinette was unrivalled; and Charles, on the tight-rope, was so 
graceful and so gentil, that Madame Saqui might envy him.  The time 
only was out of joint.  O cursed spite, that ever such harmless 
creatures as these were bidden to right it!

A walk to the little Trianon is both pleasing and moral: no doubt 
the reader has seen the pretty fantastical gardens which environ 
it; the groves and temples; the streams and caverns (whither, as 
the guide tells you, during the heat of summer, it was the custom 
of Marie Antoinette to retire, with her favorite, Madame de 
Lamballe): the lake and Swiss village are pretty little toys, 
moreover; and the cicerone of the place does not fail to point out 
the different cottages which surround the piece of water, and tell 
the names of the royal masqueraders who inhabited each.  In the 
long cottage, close upon the lake, dwelt the Seigneur du Village, 
no less a personage than Louis XV.; Louis XVI., the Dauphin, was 
the Bailli; near his cottage is that of Monseigneur the Count 
d'Artois, who was the Miller; opposite lived the Prince de Cond, 
who enacted the part of Gamekeeper (or, indeed, any other rle, for 
it does not signify much); near him was the Prince de Rohan, who 
was the Aumnier; and yonder is the pretty little dairy, which was 
under the charge of the fair Marie 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 conjuring Cagliostro of the time 
is introduced among them, and foretells to them the woes that are 
about to come.  "You, Monsieur l'Aumnier, the descendant of a long 
line of princes, the passionate admirer of that fair queen who sits 
by your side, shall be the cause of her ruin and your own,* and 
shall die in disgrace and exile.  You, son of the Conds, shall 
live long enough to see your royal race overthrown, and shall die 
by the hands of a hangman.**  You, oldest son of Saint Louis, shall 
perish by the executioner's axe; that beautiful head, O Antoinette, 
the same ruthless blade shall sever."  "They shall kill me first," 
says Lamballe, at the queen's side.  "Yes, truly," replies the 
soothsayer, "for Fate prescribes ruin for your mistress and all who 
love her."***  "And," cries Monsieur d'Artois, "do I not love my 
sister, too?  I pray you not to omit me in your prophecies."


* In the diamond-necklace affair.

** He was found hanging in his own bedroom.

*** Among the many lovers that rumor gave to the queen, poor Ferscu 
is the most remarkable.  He seems to have entertained for her a 
high and perfectly pure devotion.  He was the chief agent in the 
luckless escape to Varennes; was lurking in Paris during the time 
of her captivity; and was concerned in the many fruitless plots 
that were made for her rescue.  Ferscu lived to be an old man, but 
died a dreadful and violent death.  He was dragged from his 
carriage by the mob, in Stockholm, and murdered by them.


To whom Monsieur Cagliostro says, scornfully, "You may look forward 
to fifty years of life, after most of these are laid in the grave.  
You shall be a king, but not die one; and shall leave the crown 
only; not the worthless head that shall wear it.  Thrice shall you 
go into exile: you shall fly from the people, first, who would have 
no more of you and your race; and you shall return home over half a 
million of human corpses, that have been made for the sake of you, 
and of a tyrant as great as the greatest of your family.  Again 
driven away, your bitterest enemy shall bring you back.  But the 
strong limbs of France are not to be chained by such a paltry yoke 
as you can put on her: you shall be a tyrant, but in will only; and 
shall have a sceptre, but to see it robbed from your hand."

"And pray, Sir Conjurer, who shall be the robber?" asked Monsieur 
the Count d'Artois.


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.





End of Project Gutenberg Etext The Paris Sketch Book, by W. M. Thackeray

