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 café’s
in country towns have their walls covered with pleasing picture papers,
representing “Les Gloires de l’Armée Française,” the “Seasons,” the
“Four Quarters of the World,” “Cupid and Psyche,” or some other
allegory, landscape or history, rudely painted, as papers for walls
usually are; but the figures are all tolerably well drawn; and the
common taste, which has caused a demand for such things, is undeniable.
In Paris, the manner in which the cafés and houses of the restaurateurs
are ornamented, is, of course, a thousand times richer, and nothing can
be more beautiful, or more exquisitely finished and correct, than the
designs which adorn many of them. We are not prepared to say what sums
were expended upon the painting of “Véry’s” or “Véfour’s,” of the
“Salle Musard,” or of numberless other places of public resort in the
capital. There is many a shop-keeper whose sign is a very tolerable
picture; and often have we stopped to admire (the reader will give us
credit for having remained OUTSIDE) the excellent workmanship of the
grapes and vine-leaves over the door of some very humble, dirty,
inodorous shop of a marchand de vin.
These, however, serve only to educate the public taste, and are
ornaments for the most part much too costly for the people. But the
same love of ornament which is shown in their public places of resort,
appears in their houses likewise; and every one of our readers who has
lived in Paris, in any lodging, magnificent or humble, with any family,
however poor, may bear witness how profusely the walls of his smart
salon in the English quarter, or of his little room au sixième in the
Pays Latin, has been decorated with prints of all kinds. In the first,
probably, with bad engravings on copper from the bad and tawdry
pictures of the artists of the time of the Empire; in the latter, with
gay caricatures of Granville or Monnier: military pieces, such as are
dashed off by Raffet, Charlet, Vernet (one can hardly say which of the
three designers has the greatest merit, or the most vigorous hand); or
clever pictures from the crayon of the Deverias, the admirable
Roqueplan, or Decamp. We have named here, we believe, the principal
lithographic artists in Paris; and those—as doubtless there are many—of
our readers who have looked over Monsieur Aubert’s portfolios, or gazed
at that famous caricature-shop window in the Rue de Coq, or are even
acquainted with the exterior of Monsieur Delaporte’s little emporium in
the Burlington Arcade, need not be told how excellent the productions
of all these artists are in their genre. We get in these engravings the
loisirs of men of genius, not the finikin performances of labored
mediocrity, as with us: all these artists are good painters, as well as
good designers; a design from them is worth a whole gross of Books of
Beauty; and if we might raise a humble supplication to the artists in
our own country of similar merit—to such men as Leslie, Maclise,
Herbert, Cattermole, and others—it would be, that they should, after
the example of their French brethren and of the English landscape
painters, take chalk in hand, produce their own copies of their own
sketches, and never more draw a single “Forsaken One,” “Rejected One,”
“Dejected One” at the entreaty of any publisher or for the pages of any
Book of Beauty, Royalty, or Loveliness whatever.
Can there be a more pleasing walk in the whole world than a stroll
through the Gallery of the Louvre on a fête-day; not to look so much at
the pictures as at the lookers-on? Thousands of the poorer classes are
there: mechanics in their Sunday clothes, smiling grisettes, smart
dapper soldiers of the line, with bronzed wondering faces, marching
together in little companies of six or seven, and stopping every now
and then at Napoleon or Leonidas as they appear in proper vulgar
heroics in the pictures of David or Gros. The taste of these people
will hardly be approved by the connoisseur, but they have A taste for
art. Can the same be said of our lower classes, who, if they are
inclined to be sociable and amused in their holidays, have no place of
resort but the tap-room or tea-garden, and no food for conversation
except such as can be built upon the politics or the police reports of
the last Sunday paper? So much has Church and State puritanism done for
us—so well has it succeeded in materializing and binding down to the
earth the imagination of men, for which God has made another world
(which certain statesmen take but too little into account)—that fair
and beautiful world of heart, in which there CAN be nothing selfish or
sordid, of which Dulness has forgotten the existence, and which Bigotry
has endeavored to shut out from sight—
“On a banni les démons et les fées,
Le raisonner tristement s’accrédite:
On court, helas! après la vérité:
Ah! croyez moi, l’erreur a son mérite!”
We are not putting in a plea here for demons and fairies, as Voltaire
does in the above exquisite lines; nor about to expatiate on the
beauties of error, for it has none; but the clank of steam-engines, and
the shouts of politicians, and the struggle for gain or bread, and the
loud denunciations of stupid bigots, have wellnigh smothered poor Fancy
among us. We boast of our science, and vaunt our superior morality.
Does the latter exist? In spite of all the forms which our policy has
invented to secure it—in spite of all the preachers, all the
meeting-houses, and all the legislative enactments—if any person will
take upon himself the painful labor of purchasing and perusing some of
the cheap periodical prints which form the people’s library of
amusement, and contain what may be presumed to be their standard in
matters of imagination and fancy, he will see how false the claim is
that we bring forward of superior morality. The aristocracy who are so
eager to maintain, were, of course, not the last to feel annoyance of
the legislative restrictions on the Sabbath, and eagerly seized upon
that happy invention for dissipating the gloom and ennui ordered by Act
of Parliament to prevail on that day—the Sunday paper. It might be read
in a club-room, where the poor could not see how their betters ordained
one thing for the vulgar, and another for themselves; or in an
easy-chair, in the study, whither my lord retires every Sunday for his
devotions. It dealt in private scandal and ribaldry, only the more
piquant for its pretty flimsy veil of double-entendre. It was a fortune
to the publisher, and it became a necessary to the reader, which he
could not do without, any more than without his snuff-box, his
opera-box, or his chasse after coffee. The delightful novelty could not
for any time be kept exclusively for the haut ton; and from my lord it
descended to his valet or tradesmen, and from Grosvenor Square it
spread all the town through; so that now the lower classes have their
scandal and ribaldry organs, as well as their betters (the rogues, they
WILL imitate them!) and as their tastes are somewhat coarser than my
lord’s, and their numbers a thousand to one, why of course the prints
have increased, and the profligacy has been diffused in a ratio exactly
proportionable to the demand, until the town is infested with such a
number of monstrous publications of the kind as would have put Abbé
Dubois to the blush, or made Louis XV. cry shame. Talk of English
morality!—the worst licentiousness, in the worst period of the French
monarchy, scarcely equalled the wickedness of this Sabbath-keeping
country of ours.
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 Galérie Véro-Dodat. Half a
dozen poor artists on the one side, and his Majesty Louis Philippe, his
august family, and the numberless placemen and supporters of the
monarchy, on the other; it was something like Thersites girding at
Ajax, and piercing through the folds of the clypei septemplicis with
the poisonous shafts of his scorn. Our French Thersites was not always
an honest opponent, it must be confessed; and many an attack was made
upon the gigantic enemy, which was cowardly, false, and malignant. But
to see the monster writhing under the effects of the arrow—to see his
uncouth fury in return, and the blind blows that he dealt at his
diminutive opponent!—not one of these told in a hundred; when they DID
tell, it may be imagined that they were fierce enough in all
conscience, and served almost to annihilate the adversary.
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 “désormais une vérité,” was calmly
strangled by the Monarch who had gained his crown for his supposed
championship of it; by his Ministers, some of whom had been stout
Republicans on paper but a few years before; and by the Chamber, which,
such is the blessed constitution of French elections, will generally
vote, unvote, revote in any way the Government wishes. With a wondrous
union, and happy forgetfulness of principle, monarch, ministers, and
deputies issued the restriction laws; the Press was sent to prison; as
for the poor dear Caricature, it was fairly murdered. No more political
satires appear now, and “through the eye, correct the heart;” no more
poires ripen on the walls of the metropolis; Philipon’s political
occupation is gone.
But there is always food for satire; and the French caricaturists,
being no longer allowed to hold up to ridicule and reprobation the King
and the deputies, have found no lack of subjects for the pencil in the
ridicules and rascalities of common life. We have said that public
decency is greater amongst the French than amongst us, which, to some
of our readers, may appear paradoxical; but we shall not attempt to
argue that, in private roguery, our neighbors are not our equals. The
procès of Gisquet, which has appeared lately in the papers, shows how
deep the demoralization must be, and how a Government, based itself on
dishonesty (a tyranny, that is, under the title and fiction of a
democracy,) must practise and admit corruption in its own and in its
agents’ dealings with the nation. Accordingly, of cheating contracts,
of ministers dabbling with the funds, or extracting underhand profits
for the granting of unjust privileges and monopolies,—of grasping,
envious police restrictions, which destroy the freedom, and, with it,
the integrity of commerce,—those who like to examine such details may
find plenty in French history: the whole French finance system has been
a swindle from the days of Luvois, or Law, down to the present time.
The Government swindles the public, and the small traders swindle their
customers, on the authority and example of the superior powers. Hence
the art of roguery, under such high patronage, maintains in France a
noble front of impudence, and a fine audacious openness, which it does
not wear in our country.
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 pièces of his costume—a snuff-box like a creaking
warming-pan, a handkerchief hanging together by a miracle, and a switch
of about the thickness of a man’s thigh, formed the ornaments of this
exquisite personage. He is a compound of Fielding’s “Blueskin” and
Goldsmith’s “Beau Tibbs.” He has the dirt and dandyism of the one, with
the ferocity of the other: sometimes he is made to swindle, but where
he can get a shilling more, M. Macaire will murder without scruple: he
performs one and the other act (or any in the scale between them) with
a similar bland imperturbability, and accompanies his actions with such
philosophical remarks as may be expected from a person of his talents,
his energies, his amiable life and character.
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, sociétés en commandite
(companies of which the members are irresponsible beyond the amount of
their shares), and all sorts of commercial speculations, requiring
intelligence and honesty on the part of the directors, confidence and
liberal disbursements from the shareholders.
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 Littéraire,” and the system of
“Primes”—premiums, that is—to be given, by lottery, to certain
subscribers in these institutions. Could Robert Macaire see such things
going on, and have no hand in them?
* 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 créons une banque, mais là, une vraie banque: capital
cent millions de millions, cent milliards de milliards d’actions. Nous
enfonçons la banque de France, les banquiers, les banquistes; nous
enfonçons tout le monde.” “Oui,” says Bertrand, very calm and stupid,
“mais les gendarmes?” “Que tu es bête, Bertrand: est-ce qu’on arrête un
millionaire?” Such is the key to M. Macaire’s philosophy; and a wise
creed too, as times go.
Acting on these principles, Robert appears soon after; he has not
created a bank, but a journal. He sits in a chair of state, and
discourses to a shareholder. Bertrand, calm and stupid as before,
stands humbly behind. “Sir,” says the editor of La Blague, journal
quotidienne, “our profits arise from a new combination. The journal
costs twenty francs; we sell it for twenty-three and a half. A million
subscribers make three millions and a half of profits; there are my
figures; contradict me by figures, or I will bring an action for
libel.” The reader may fancy the scene takes place in England, where
many such a swindling prospectus has obtained credit ere now. At Plate
33, Robert is still a journalist; he brings to the editor of a paper an
article of his composition, a violent attack on a law. “My dear M.
Macaire,” says the editor, “this must be changed; we must PRAISE this
law.” “Bon, bon!” says our versatile Macaire. “Je vais retoucher ça, et
je vous fais en faveur de la loi UN ARTICLE MOUSSEUX.”
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 exploité the Bourse, whether as a gambler
in the public funds or other companies, he sagely perceives that it is
time to turn to some other profession, and, providing himself with a
black gown, proposes blandly to Bertrand to set up—a new religion. “Mon
ami,” says the repentant sinner, “le temps de la commandite va passer,
MAIS LES BADAUDS NE PASSERONT PAS.” (O rare sentence! it should be
written in letters of gold!) “OCCUPONS NOUS DE CE QUI EST ÉTERNEL. Si
nous fassions une réligion?” On which M. Bertrand remarks, “A religion!
what the devil—a religion is not an easy thing to make.” But Macaire’s
receipt is easy. “Get a gown, take a shop,” he says, “borrow some
chairs, preach about Napoleon, or the discovery of America, or
Molière—and there’s a religion for you.”
We have quoted this sentence more for the contrast it offers with our
own manners, than for its merits. After the noble paragraph, “Les
badauds ne passeront pas. Occupons nous de ce qui est éternel,” one
would have expected better satire upon cant than the words that follow.
We are not in a condition to say whether the subjects chosen are those
that had been selected by Père Enfantin, or Chatel, or Lacordaire; but
the words are curious, we think, for the very reason that the satire is
so poor. The fact is, there is no religion in Paris; even clever M.
Philipon, who satirizes everything, and must know, therefore, some
little about the subject which he ridicules, has nothing to say but,
“Preach a sermon, and that makes a religion; anything will do.” If
ANYTHING will do, it is clear that the religious commodity is not in
much demand. Tartuffe had better things to say about hypocrisy in his
time; but then Faith was alive; now, there is no satirizing religious
cant in France, for its contrary, true religion, has disappeared
altogether; and having no substance, can cast no shadow. If a satirist
would lash the religious hypocrites in ENGLAND now—the High Church
hypocrites, the Low Church hypocrites, the promiscuous Dissenting
hypocrites, the No Popery hypocrites—he would have ample subject
enough. In France, the religious hypocrites went out with the Bourbons.
Those who remain pious in that country (or, rather, we should say, in
the capital, for of that we speak,) are unaffectedly so, for they have
no worldly benefit to hope for from their piety; the great majority
have no religion at all, and do not scoff at the few, for scoffing is
the minority’s weapon, and is passed always to the weaker side,
whatever that may be. Thus H. B. caricatures the Ministers: if by any
accident that body of men should be dismissed from their situations,
and be succeeded by H. B.’s friends, the Tories,—what must the poor
artist do? He must pine away and die, if he be not converted; he cannot
always be paying compliments; for caricature has a spice of Goethe’s
Devil in it, and is “der Geist der stets verneint,” the Spirit that is
always denying.
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 MAÎTRE Macaire in the courts of law, as avocat, avoué—in a
humbler capacity even, as a prisoner at the bar, he distinguishes
himself greatly, as may be imagined. On one occasion we find the
learned gentleman humanely visiting an unfortunate détenu—no other
person, in fact, than his friend M. Bertrand, who has fallen into some
trouble, and is awaiting the sentence of the law. He begins—
“Mon cher Bertrand, donne moi cent écus, je te fais acquitter
d’emblée.”
“J’ai pas d’argent.”
“Hé 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 atténuante.”
The manner in which Maitre Macaire soars from the cent écus (a high
point already) to the sublime of the boots, is in the best comic style.
In another instance he pleads before a judge, and, mistaking his
client, pleads for defendant, instead of plaintiff. “The infamy of the
plaintiff’s character, my LUDS, renders his testimony on such a charge
as this wholly unavailing.” “M. Macaire, M. Macaire,” cries the
attorney, in a fright, “you are for the plaintiff!” “This, my lords, is
what the defendant WILL SAY. This is the line of defence which the
opposite party intend to pursue; as if slanders like these could weigh
with an enlightened jury, or injure the spotless reputation of my
client!” In this story and expedient M. Macaire has been indebted to
the English bar. If there be an occupation for the English satirist in
the exposing of the cant and knavery of the pretenders to religion,
what room is there for him to lash the infamies of the law! On this
point the French are babes in iniquity compared to us—a counsel
prostituting himself for money is a matter with us so stale, that it is
hardly food for satire: which, to be popular, must find some much more
complicated and interesting knavery whereon to exercise its skill.
M. Macaire is more skilful in love than in law, and appears once or
twice in a very amiable light while under the influence of the tender
passion. We find him at the head of one of those useful establishments
unknown in our country—a Bureau de Mariage: half a dozen of such places
are daily advertised in the journals: and “une veuve de trente ans
ayant une fortune de deux cent mille francs,” or “une demoiselle de
quinze aus, jolie, d’une famille très distinguée, qui possède trente
mille livres de rentes,”—continually, in this kind-hearted way, are
offering themselves to the public: sometimes it is a gentleman, with a
“physique agréable,—des talens de société”—and a place under
Government, who makes a sacrifice of himself in a similar manner. In
our little historical gallery we find this philanthropic
anti-Malthusian at the head of an establishment of this kind,
introducing a very meek, simple-looking bachelor to some distinguished
ladies of his connoissance. “Let me present you, sir, to Madame de St.
Bertrand” (it is our old friend), “veuve de la grande armée, et Mdlle
Eloa de Wormspire. Ces dames brûlent de l’envie de faire votre
connoissance. Je les ai invitées à dîner chez vous ce soir: vous nous
menerez à l’opéra, et nous ferons une petite partie d’écarté. Tenez
vous bien, M. Gobard! ces dames ont des projets sur vous!”
Happy Gobard! happy system, which can thus bring the pure and loving
together, and acts as the best ally of Hymen! The announcement of the
rank and titles of Madame de St. Bertrand—“veuve de la grande armée”—is
very happy. “La grande armée” has been a father to more orphans, and a
husband to more widows, than it ever made. Mistresses of cafés, old
governesses, keepers of boarding-houses, genteel beggars, and ladies of
lower rank still, have this favorite pedigree. They have all had
malheurs (what kind it is needless to particularize), they are all
connected with the grand homme, and their fathers were all colonels.
This title exactly answers to the “clergyman’s daughter” in England—as,
“A young lady, the daughter of a clergyman, is desirous to teach,” &c.
“A clergyman’s widow receives into her house a few select,” and so
forth. “Appeal to the benevolent.—By a series of unheard-of calamities,
a young lady, daughter of a clergyman in the west of England, has been
plunged,” &c. &c. The difference is curious, as indicating the standard
of respectability.
The male beggar of fashion is not so well known among us as in Paris,
where street-doors are open; six or eight families live in a house; and
the gentleman who earns his livelihood by this profession can make half
a dozen visits without the trouble of knocking from house to house, and
the pain of being observed by the whole street, while the footman is
examining him from the area. Some few may be seen in England about the
inns of court, where the locality is favorable (where, however, the
owners of the chambers are not proverbially soft of heart, so that the
harvest must be poor); but Paris is full of such adventurers,—fat,
smooth-tongued, and well dressed, with gloves and gilt-headed canes,
who would be insulted almost by the offer of silver, and expect your
gold as their right. Among these, of course, our friend Robert plays
his part; and an excellent engraving represents him, snuff-box in hand,
advancing to an old gentleman, whom, by his poodle, his powdered head,
and his drivelling, stupid look, one knows to be a Carlist of the old
régime. “I beg pardon,” says Robert; “is it really yourself to whom I
have the honor of speaking?”—“It is.” “Do you take snuff?”—“I thank
you.”—“Sir, I have had misfortunes—I want assistance. I am a Vendéan of
illustrious birth. You know the family of Macairbec—we are of Brest. My
grandfather served the King in his galleys; my father and I belong,
also, to the marine. Unfortunate suits at law have plunged us into
difficulties, and I do not hesitate to ask you for the succor of ten
francs.”—“Sir, I never give to those I don’t know.”—“Right, sir,
perfectly right. Perhaps you will have the kindness to LEND me ten
francs?”
The adventures of Doctor Macaire need not be described, because the
different degrees in quackery which are taken by that learned physician
are all well known in England, where we have the advantage of many
higher degrees in the science, which our neighbors know nothing about.
We have not Hahnemann, but we have his disciples; we have not
Broussais, but we have the College of Health; and surely a dose of
Morrison’s pills is a sublimer discovery than a draught of hot water.
We had St. John Long, too—where is his science?—and we are credibly
informed that some important cures have been effected by the inspired
dignitaries of “the church” in Newman Street which, if it continue to
practise, will sadly interfere with the profits of the regular
physicians, and where the miracles of the Abbé of Paris are about to be
acted over again.
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 Père la Chaise; when the follies here
recorded shall have been superseded by new ones, and the fools now so
active shall have given up the inheritance of the world to their
children: the latter will, at least, have the advantage of knowing,
intimately and exactly, the manners of life and being of their
grandsires, and calling up, when they so choose it, our ghosts from the
grave, to live, love, quarrel, swindle, suffer, and struggle on blindly
as of yore. And when the amused speculator shall have laughed
sufficiently at the immensity of our follies, and the paltriness of our
aims, smiled at our exploded superstitions, wondered how this man
should be considered great, who is now clean forgotten (as copious
Guthrie before mentioned); how this should have been thought a patriot
who is but a knave spouting commonplace; or how that should have been
dubbed a philosopher who is but a dull fool, blinking solemn, and
pretending to see in the dark; when he shall have examined all these at
his leisure, smiling in a pleasant contempt and good-humored
superiority, and thanking heaven for his increased lights, he will shut
the book, and be a fool as his fathers were before him.
It runs in the blood. Well hast thou said, O ragged Macaire,—“Le jour
va passer, MAIS LES BADAUDS NE PASSERONT PAS.”