Dublin at last 565
THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
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 cloths 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.
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_.
[Illustration: EXPLANATION OF THE ALLEGORY
Number 1’s an ancient Carlist, Number 8 a Paris Artist,
Gloomily there stands between them, Number 2 a Bonapartist;
In the middle is King Louis-Philip standing at his ease,
Guarded by a loyal Grocer, and a Sergeant of Police;
4’s the people in a passion, 6 a Priest of pious mien,
5 a Gentleman of Fashion, copied from a Magazine.
]
THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK
AN INVASION OF FRANCE
‘Cæsar venit in Galliam summâ diligentiâ.’
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,
nurserymaids, 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-humoured, before and during a great family move of this
nature. Well, the swindling hackney-coachmen are paid, the mother
leading on her regiment of little ones, and supported by her auxiliary
nursemaids, are safe in the cabin; you have counted twenty-six of the
twenty-seven parcels, and have them on board; and that horrid man on the
paddle-box, who, for twenty minutes past, has been roaring out, NOW,
SIR!--says, _Now, sir_, no more.
I never yet knew how a steamer began to move, 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 barges 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, nursemaids, 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 parlour, is
in order? Look at her now, prostrate, prostrate--no strength has she to
speak, scarce power to push to her youngest one--her suffering,
struggling Rosa,--to push to her the--the instrumentoon!
In the midst of all these throes and agonies, at which all the
passengers, who have their own woes (you 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 harbour 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’hôte, sare, à 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 Hôtel Bedford (and you can’t be
better), and smiling chambermaids carry off your children to snug beds;
while smart waiters produce for your honour--a cold fowl, say, and a
salad, and a bottle of Bordeaux and seltzer-water.
* * * * *
The morning comes--I don’t know a pleasanter feeling than that of waking
with the sun shining on objects quite new, and (although you may 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
courtyard under the windows! Bells are jangling; a family, mayhap, is
going to Paris _en poste_, and wondrous is the jabber of the courier,
the postillion, 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 neighbouring Albion, and
going to bathe. Here come three Englishmen, _habitués_ evidently of the
place,--dandy specimens of our countrymen: one wears a marine dress,
another has a shooting dress, a third has a blouse and a pair of
guiltless spurs--all have as much hair on the face as nature or art can
supply, and all wear their hats very much on one side. Believe me, there
is on the face of this world no scamp like an English one, no blackguard
like one of these half-gentlemen, so mean, so low, so vulgar,--so
ludicrously ignorant and conceited, so desperately heartless and
depraved.
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-humoured, facetious,
descriptive style, with which your letter has commenced. Your remark,
sir, is perfectly just, and does honour 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 lighthouse and the new harbour, and
the gas-lamps, and the manufactures, and the convents, and the number of
English and French residents, and the pillar erected in honour of the
grand _Armée d’Angleterre_, so called because it _didn’t_ go to England,
have all been excellently described by the facetious Coglan, the learned
Dr. Millingen, and by innumerable guide-books besides. A fine thing it
is to hear the stout old Frenchmen of Napoleon’s time argue how that
audacious Corsican _would_ have marched to London, after swallowing
Nelson and all his gunboats, but for _cette malheureuse guerre
d’Espagne_ and _cette glorieuse campagne d’Autriche_, which the gold of
Pitt caused to be raised at the Emperors 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 Vimieiro 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 hôtel 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 postillions.)
* * * * *
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 headpiece,
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 her teeth ready, 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 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 neighbour,
yawning, and inserting an elbow in the mouth of his right-and left-hand
companion, ‘nous voilà.’
NOUS VOILÀ!--We are at Paris! This must account for the removal of the
milliner’s curl-papers, and the fixing of the old lady’s teeth.--Since
the last _relais_, the diligence has been travelling with extraordinary
speed. The postillion 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 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 St.
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 colour. Before
you, shining in the sun, is a long glistening line of _gutter_--not a
very pleasing object in a city, but in a picture invaluable. On each
side are houses of all dimensions and hues; some but of one story; some
as high as the Tower of Babel. From these the haberdashers (and this is
their favourite street) flaunt long strips of gaudy calicoes, which give
a strange air of rude gaiety to the looks. Milkwomen, with a little
crowd of gossips round each, are, at this early hour of morning, selling
the chief material of the Parisian _café-au-lait_. Gay wineshops,
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 courtyard, where its journey is
destined to conclude.
If there was a noise before of screaming postillions and cracked horns,
it was nothing to the Babel-like clatter which greets us now. We are in
a great court, which Hajji Baba would call the father of diligences.
Half a dozen other coaches arrive at the same minute--no light affairs,
like your English vehicles, but ponderous machines, containing fifteen
passengers inside, more in the cabriolet, and vast towers of luggage on
the roof: others are loading: the yard is filled with passengers coming
or departing;--bustling porters and screaming commissionaires. These
latter seize you as you descend from your place,--twenty cards are
thrust into your hand, and as many voices, jabbering with inconceivable
swiftness, shriek into your ear, ‘Dis way, sare; are you for ze Otel of
Rhin? Hôtel de l’Amirauté!--Hôtel Bristol, sare?--Monsieur, l’Hôtel de
Lille? Sacr-rrré nom de Dieu, laissez passer ce petit Monsieur! Ow mosh
loggish ave you, sare?’
[Illustration]
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 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’hôte_ in the city, go, O stranger! to the Hôtel des
Princes; it is close to the Boulevard, and convenient for Frascati’s.
The Hôtel Mirabeau possesses scarcely less attraction; but of this you
will find, in Mr. Bulwer’s _Autobiography of Pelham_, a faithful and
complete account. Lawson’s Hotel has likewise its merits, as also the
Hôtel de Lille, which may be described as a ‘second chop’ Meurice.
If you are a poor student come to study the humanities, or the pleasant
art of amputation, cross the water forthwith, and proceed to the Hôtel
Corneille, near the Odéon, or others of its species; there are many
where you can live royally (until you economise 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 gaieties that go on--just for once, just to see
what they are like? How many, when the horrible gambling-dens were open,
did resist a sight of them?--nay, was not a young fellow rather
flattered by a dinner invitation from the Salon, whither he went, fondly
pretending that he should see ‘French society,’ in the persons of
certain Dukes and Counts who used to frequent the place?
My friend Pogson is a young fellow, not much worse, although, perhaps, a
little weaker and simpler than his neighbours; and coming to Paris with
exactly the same notions that bring many others of the British youth to
that capital, events befell him there, last winter, which 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 like 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 master
dealt in (‘the sweetest sample of castor-oil, smelt like a nosegay--went
off like wildfire--hogshead and a-half at Rochester, eight-and-twenty
gallons at Canterbury,’ and so on), and crossed to Calais, and thence
voyaged to Paris in the coupé of the diligence. He paid for two places,
too, although a single man, and the reason shall now be made known.
Dining at the _table-d’hôte_ at Quillacq’s--it is the best inn on the
continent of Europe--our little traveller had the happiness to be placed
next to a lady, who was, he saw at a glance, one of the extreme pink of
the nobility. A large lady, in black satin, with eyes and hair as black
as sloes, with gold chains, scent-bottles, sable tippet, worked
pocket-handkerchief, and four twinkling rings on each of her plump white
fingers. Her cheeks were as pink as the finest Chinese rouge could make
them: Pog knew the article; he travelled in it. Her lips were as red as
the ruby lip-salve: she used the very best, that was clear.
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 pass 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 _h_onour: 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 Bi_ronn_ and _By_ron 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 honour--I beg your pardon, ma’am--is your ladyship a
Baroness, and I not know it; pray excuse me for calling you ma’am.’
The Baroness smiled most graciously--with such a look as Juno cast upon
unfortunate Jupiter when she wished to gain her wicked ends upon
him--the Baroness smiled; and, stealing her hand into a black velvet
bag, drew from it an ivory card-case, and from the ivory card-case
extracted a glazed card, printed in gold; on it was engraved a coronet,
and under the coronet the words--
BARONNE DE FLORVAL-DELVAL,
NÉE DE MELVAL-NORVAL.
_Rue Taitbout_.
[Illustration: MR. POGSON’S TEMPTATION]
The grand Pitt diamond--the Queen’s own star of the garter--a sample of
otto-of-roses at a guinea a drop, would not be handled more curiously,
or more respectfully, than this porcelain card of the Baroness.
Trembling he put it into his little Russia-leather pocket-book: and when
he ventured to look up, and saw the eyes of the Baroness de
Florval-Delval, née de Melval-Norval, gazing upon him with friendly and
serene glances, a thrill of pride tingled through Pogson’s blood: he
felt himself to be the very happiest fellow ‘on the Continent.’
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 _tête-à-tête_. The Baroness
did not appear inclined to move: it was cold; a fire was comfortable,
and she had ordered none in her apartment. Might Pogson give her one
more glass of champagne, or would her ladyship prefer ‘something hot.’
Her ladyship gravely said, she never took _anything_ hot! ‘Some
champagne, then, a leetle drop?’ She would! she would! Oh, 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-Melvals, beautiful as an angel, and no more caring for
money than I do for split peas.
‘I’ll tell you how it all 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-d’hôte_, and
everybody accepts everybody’s wine. Bob Irons, who travels in
linen, on our circuit, told me that he had made some slap-up
acquaintances among the genteelest people at Paris, nothing but by
offering them Sham.
‘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 come
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 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 as 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 sealskin 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
brick-dust-coloured pantaloons, and a neat mackintosh, presented,
altogether, as elegant and _distingué_ an appearance as any one could
desire. He had put on a clean collar at breakfast, and a pair of white
kids as he entered the barrier, and looked, as he rushed into my arms,
more like a man stepping out of a bandbox 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 curtsey. ‘_Ad_you!’ 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 have fain 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 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
favourite animal.
‘You seem to have gone a pretty length already,’ said I, ‘by promising
to visit her to morrow.’
‘A good length?--I believe you. Leave _me_ alone for that.’
‘But I thought you were only to be two in the _coupé_, you wicked
rogue.’
‘Two in the _coupy_? 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 _h_onour; but I made up for all that,’
said Pogson, winking slily, and putting his hand to his little bunch of
a nose, in a very knowing way.
‘You did, and how?’
‘Why, you dog, I sat next to her; sat in the middle the whole way, and
my back’s half broke, I can tell you:’ and thus having depicted his
happiness, we soon reached the inn where this back-broken young man was
to lodge during his stay in Paris.
The next day, at five, we met; Mr. Pogson had seen his Baroness, and
described her lodgings, in his own expressive way, as ‘slap-up.’ She had
received him quite like an old friend; treated him to _eau sucrée_, of
which beverage he expressed himself a great admirer: and actually asked
him to dine the next day. But there was a cloud over the ingenuous
youth’s brow, and I inquired still further.
‘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
lukewarmness 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
Élysées. ‘That’s _another_ tiptop chap,’ said he, when we met, at
length. ‘What do you think of an Earl’s son, my boy? Honourable Tom
Ringwood, son of the Earl of Cinqbars: what do you think of that, eh?’
I thought he was getting into very good society. Sam was a dashing
fellow, and was always above his own line of life; he had met Mr.
Ringwood at the Baron’s, and they’d been to the play together; and the
honourable gent, as Sam called him, had joked with him about being
well-to-do _in a certain quarter_; and he had had a game of billiards
with the Baron, at the _Estaminy_, ‘a very distangy place, where you
smoke,’ said Sam; ‘quite select, and frequented by the tiptop 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 Honourable Tom live?’ says I.
‘_Honourable!_’ says Sam, with a hollow horrid laugh; ‘I tell you, Dick,
he’s no more Honourable than you are.’
‘What, an impostor?’
‘No, no; not that. He is a real Honourable, only--’
‘Oh, ho! I smell a rat--a little jealous, eh?’
‘Jealousy be hanged! I tell you he’s a thief; and the Baron’s a thief;
and, hang me, if I think his wife is any better. Eight-and-thirty pounds
he won of me before supper; and made me drunk, and sent me home:--is
_that_ honourable? How can _I_ afford to lose forty pounds? It’s took me
two years to save it up:--if my old aunt gets wind of it, she’ll cut me
off with a shilling: hang me!’--and here Sam, in an agony, tore his fair
hair.
While bewailing his lot in this lamentable strain, his bell was rung,
which signal being answered by a surly ‘Come in,’ a tall, very
fashionable gentleman, with a fur coat, and a fierce tuft to his chin,
entered the room. ‘Pogson, my buck, how goes it?’ said he familiarly,
and gave a stare at me: I was making for my hat.
‘Don’t go,’ said Sam, rather eagerly; and I sat down again.
The Honourable Mr. Ringwood hummed and ha’d: and, at last, said he
wished to speak to Mr. Pogson on business, in private, if possible.
‘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 drily.
‘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 Tom, ‘I’ve never set eyes on his face since last
night; and never wish to see him again.’
‘Come, come, enough of this talk; how do you intend to settle the bills
which you gave him last night?’
‘Bills! what do you mean?’
‘I mean, sir, these bills,’ said the Honourable Tom, producing two out
of his pocket-book, and looking as stern as a lion. ‘“I promise to pay,
on demand, to the Baron de Florval, the sum of four hundred pounds.
October 20, 1838.” “Ten days after date I promise to pay the Baron de et
cætera, et cætera, 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 Melval, 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 sprang 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 Melval, 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 Pog’s. The Major is on half-pay,
and occupies a modest apartment, _au quatrième_, in the very hotel which
Pogson had patronised 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, and 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, however, one of the most useful persons in society that can
possibly be; for besides being incorrigibly duelsome on his own account,
he is, for others, the most acute and peaceable counsellor in the world,
and has carried more friends through scrapes and prevented more deaths
than any member of the Humane Society. British never bought a single
step in the army, as is well known. In ‘14 he killed a celebrated French
fire-eater, who had slain a young friend of his, and living, as he does,
a great deal with young men of pleasure, and good old sober family
people, he is loved by them both, and has as welcome a place made for
him at a roaring bachelor’s supper at the Café Anglais as at a staid
dowager’s dinner-table in the Faubourg St. Honoré. Such pleasant old
boys are very profitable aquaintances, let me tell you; and lucky is the
young man who has one or two such friends in his list.
Hurrying on Pogson in his dress, I conducted him, panting, up to the
Major’s _quatrième_, where we were cheerfully bidden to come in. The
little gentleman was in his travelling jacket, and occupied in painting,
elegantly, one of those natty pairs of boots in which he daily
promenaded the Boulevards. A couple of pairs of tough buff gloves had
been undergoing some pipe-claying operation under his hands; no man
stepped out so spick and span, with a hat so nicely brushed, with a
stiff cravat tied so neatly under a fat little red face, with a blue
frock-coat so scrupulously fitted to a punchy little person, as Major
British, about whom we have written these two pages. He stared rather
hardly at my companion, but gave me a kind shake of the hand, and we
proceeded at once to business. ‘Major British,’ said I, ‘we want your
advice in regard to an unpleasant affair which has just occurred to my
friend Pogson.’
‘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 _distingués_ friends of
his own set. Last night one of the Baron’s friends gave a party in
honour of my friend Pogson, who lost forty-eight pounds at cards
_before_ he was made drunk, and Heaven knows how much after.’
‘Not a shilling, by sacred Heaven!--not a shilling!’ yelled out Pogson.
‘After the supper I ad such an eadach, I couldn’t do anything but fall
asleep on the sofa.’
‘You “ad such an eadach,” sir,’ said 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 upstairs, senseless, to bed, and, on waking, receives
a visit from his entertainer of the night before--a Lord’s son, Major, a
tiptop 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 Honourable gent says I must fight if I don’t pay,’ whimpered Sam.
‘What! fight _you_? Do you mean that the Honourable gent, as you call
him, will go out with a bagman?’
‘He doesn’t know I’m a--I’m a commercial man,’ blushingly said Sam: ‘he
fancies I’m a military gent.’
The Major’s gravity was quite upset at this absurd notion; and he
laughed outrageously. ‘Why, the fact is, sir,’ said I, ‘that my friend
Pogson, knowing the value of the title of Captain, and being
complimented by the Baroness on his warlike appearance, said, boldly, he
was in the army. He only assumed the rank in order to dazzle her weak
imagination, never fancying that there was a husband, and a circle of
friends, with whom he was afterwards to make an acquaintance; and then,
you know, it was too late to withdraw.’
‘A pretty pickle you have put yourself in, Mr. Pogson, by making love to
other men’s wives, and calling yourself names,’ said the Major, who was
restored to good-humour. ‘And, pray, who is the _h_onourable gent?’
‘The Earl of Cinqbars’ son,’ says Pogson, ‘the Honourable Tom Ringwood.’
‘I thought it was some such character: and the Baron is the Baron de
Florval-Melval?’
‘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. Melval’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 further; 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,’ etc. etc. 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 FÊTES 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 fêtes of July. You have read,
no doubt, of that glorious revolution which took place here nine years
ago, and which is now commemorated annually, in a pretty facetious
manner, by gun-firing, student-processions, pole-climbing-for-silver-spoons,
gold-watches, and legs-of-mutton, monarchical orations, and what not,
and sanctioned, moreover, by Chamber of Deputies, with a grant of a
couple of hundred thousand francs to defray the expenses of all the
crackers, gun-firings, and legs-of-mutton aforesaid. There is a new
fountain in the Place Louis Quinze, otherwise called the Place Louis
Seize, or else the Place de la Révolution, or else the Place de la
Concorde (who can say why?)--which, I am told, is to run bad wine
during certain hours to-morrow, and there _would_ have been a review
of the National Guards and the Line--only, since the Fieschi business,
reviews are no joke, and so this latter part of the festivity has been
discontinued.
Do you not laugh--O Pharos of Bungay--at the continuance of a humbug
such as this? at the humbugging anniversary of a humbug? The King of the
Barricades is, next to the Emperor Nicholas, the most absolute Sovereign
in Europe; yet there is not in the whole of this fair kingdom of France
a single man who cares sixpence about him, or his dynasty, except,
mayhap, a few hangers-on at the Château, who eat his dinners, and put
their hands in his purse. The feeling of loyalty is as dead as old
Charles the Tenth; the Chambers have been laughed at, the country has
been laughed at, all the successive ministries have been laughed at (and
you know who is the wag that has amused himself with them all); and,
behold, here come three days at the end of July, and cannons think it
necessary to fire off, squibs and crackers to blaze and fizz, fountains
to run wine, kings to make speeches, and subjects to crawl up greasy
_mâts-de-cocagne_ in token of gratitude and _réjouissance publique_!--My
dear sir, in their aptitude to swallow, to utter, to enact humbugs,
these French people, from Majesty downwards, beat all the other nations
of this earth. In looking at these men, their manners, dresses,
opinions, politics, actions, history, it is impossible to preserve a
grave countenance; instead of having Carlyle to write a _History of the
French Revolution_, I often think it should be handed over to Dickens or
Theodore Hook, and oh! where is the Rabelais to be the faithful
historian of the last phase of the Revolution--the last glorious nine
years of which we are now commemorating the last glorious three days?
I had made a vow not to say a syllable on the subject, although I have
seen, with my neighbours, all the gingerbread stalls down the Champs
Élysées, 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 honour of
translating, for your edification, an account of the first day’s
proceedings--it is mighty amusing, to my thinking.
CELEBRATION OF THE DAYS OF JULY
‘To-day (Saturday), funeral ceremonies, in honour of the victims of
July, were held in the various edifices consecrated to public worship.
‘These edifices, with the exception of some churches (especially that of
the Petits-Pères), were uniformly hung with black on the outside; the
hangings bore only this inscription: 27, 28, 29 July 1830--surrounded by
a wreath of oak-leaves.
‘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 Quélen (Archbishop of Paris), and of many members
of the superior clergy, was remarked at Nôtre Dame.
‘The civil authorities attended service in the several districts.
‘The poles, ornamented with tricoloured flags, which formerly were
placed on Nôtre 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 cætera, et cætera, et cætera.
‘The tombs of the Louvre were covered with black hangings, and adorned
with tricoloured 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
tricoloured banner with an inscription, “To THE MANES OF JULY:” ranging
themselves in order, they marched five abreast to the Marché des
Innocens. On their arrival, the Municipal Guards of the Halle aux Draps,
where the post had been doubled, issued out without arms, and the
town-sergeants placed themselves before the market to prevent the entry
of the procession. The young men passed in perfect order, and without
saying a word--only lifting their hats as they defiled before the tombs.
When they arrived at the Louvre they found the gates shut and the Garden
evacuated. The troops were under arms, and formed in battalion.
‘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 _naïveté_, which one could not desire improved?
How good is that touch of sly indignation about the _little
catafalques_! how rich the contrast presented by the economy of the
Catholics to the splendid disregard of expense exhibited by the devout
Jews! and how touching the ‘_apologetical discourses_ on the
Revolution,’ delivered by the Protestant pastors! Fancy the profound
affliction of the Gardes Municipaux, the Sergens de Ville, the
police-agents in plain clothes, and the troops with fixed bayonets,
sobbing round the ‘expiatory monuments of a pyramidical shape,
surmounted by funeral vases,’ and compelled, by sad duty, to fire into
the public who might wish to indulge in the same woe! O ‘Manes of July!’
(the phrase is pretty and grammatical), why did you with sharp bullets
break those Louvre windows? Why did you bayonet redcoated Swiss behind
that fair white facade, and, braving cannon, musket, sabre, prospective
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_, namely _pour délit politique_--no more wicked
guillotining for revolutions. A Frenchman must have his revolution--it
is his nature to knock down omnibuses in the street, and across them to
fire at troops of the line--it is a sin to balk it. Did not the King
send off Revolutionary Prince Napoleon in a coach-and-four? Did not the
jury, before the face of God and Justice, proclaim Revolutionary Colonel
Vaudrey not guilty?--One may hope, soon, that if a man shows decent
courage and energy in half a dozen _émeutes_, he will get promotion and
a premium.
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,
foolhardy Barbès, 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. Victor Hugo was at the Opera on the night the sentence of the Court
of Peers, condemning Barbès to death, was published. The great poet
composed the following verses:
‘“Par votre ange envolé, ainsi qu’une colombe,
Par le royal enfant, doux et frêle roseau,
Grâce, encore une fois! Grâce, au nom de la tombe!
Grâce, au nom du berçeau!”[1]
‘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.
The pen of his Majesty had signed the commutation of Barbès, while that
of 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.’
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 Barbès 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 envolé, ainsi qu’une_,’ etc.
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, _ravissants, délicieux_, and, coming from such a
_célébrité littéraire_ as yourself, shall meet with every possible
attention--in fact, had I required anything to confirm my own previous
opinions, this charming poem would have done so. Bon jour, mon cher
Monsieur Hugo, au revoir!’--and they part:--Justice taking off his hat
and bowing, and the Author of _Ruy Blas_ quite convinced that he has
been treating with him _d’égal à égal_. I can hardly bring my mind to
fancy that anything is serious in France--it seems to be all rant,
tinsel, and stage-play. Sham liberty, sham monarchy, sham glory, sham
justice,--_où, diable, donc la vérité va-t-elle se nicher_?
* * * * *
The last rocket of the fête of July has just mounted, exploded, made a
portentous bang, and emitted a gorgeous show of blue-lights, and then
(like many reputations) disappeared totally: the hundredth gun on the
Invalid Terrace has uttered its last roar--and a great comfort it is
for eyes and ears that the festival is over. We shall be able to go
about our every-day business again, and not be hustled by the gendarmes
or the crowd.
The sight which I have just come away from is as brilliant, happy, and
beautiful as can be conceived; and if you want to see French people to
the greatest advantage, you should go to a festival like this, where
their manners and innocent gaiety 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 neighbourhood of Paris, who, as soon as the
fireworks were over, formed themselves into a line, three or four
abreast, and so marched singing home. As for the fireworks, squibs and
crackers are very hard to describe, and very little was to be seen of
them: to me, the prettiest sight was the vast, orderly, happy crowd, the
number of children, and the extraordinary care and kindness of the
parents towards these little creatures. It does one good to see honest,
heavy _épiciers_, fathers of families, playing with them in the
Tuileries, or, as to-night, bearing them stoutly on their shoulders,
through many long hours, in order that the little ones, too, may have
their share of the fun. John Bull, I fear, is more selfish: he does not
take Mrs. Bull to the public-house; but leaves her, for the most part,
to take care of the children at home.
The fête, then, is over; the pompous black pyramid at the Louvre is only
a skeleton now; all the flags have been miraculously whisked away during
the night, and the fine chandeliers which glittered down the Champs
Élysées 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 further
revolutionary fêtes, and that the Chamber may reasonably refuse to vote
more money for them. Why should men be so mighty proud of having, on a
certain day, cut a certain numbre 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
honourable 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 Élysées free for the omnibuses to run, and the
Tuileries in quiet, so that the nursemaids might come as usual, and the
newspapers be read for a halfpenny apiece.
Shall I trouble you with an account of the speculations of these latter,
and the state of the parties which they represent? The complication is
not a little curious, and may form, perhaps, a subject of graver
disquisition. The July fêtes occupy, as you may imagine, a considerable
part of their columns just now, and it is amusing to follow them, one by
one; to read Tweedledum’s praise, and Tweedledee’s indignation--to read,
in the _Débats_, how the King was received with shouts and loyal
vivats--in the _National_, how not a tongue was wagged in his praise,
but, on the instant of his departure, how the people called for the
‘Marseillaise’ and applauded _that_. But best say no more about the
fête. The legitimists were always indignant at it. The high Philippist
party sneers at and despises it; the Republicans hate it; it seems a
joke against _them_. Why continue it! If there be anything sacred in the
name and idea of royalty, why renew this fête? It only shows how a
rightful monarch was hurled from his throne, and a dexterous usurper
stole his precious diadem. If there be anything noble in the memory of a
day, when citizens, unused to war, rose against practised veterans, and,
armed with the strength of their cause, overthrew them, why speak of it
now? or renew the bitter recollections of the bootless struggle and
victory? O Lafayette! O hero of two worlds! O accomplished Cromwell
Grandison! you have to answer for more than any mortal man who has
played a part in history: two republics and one monarchy does the world
owe to you; and especially grateful should your country be to you. Did
you not, in ‘90, make clear the path for honest Robespierre, and, in
‘30, prepare the way for----
* * * * *
[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
École 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 in 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,
etc.; 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 herself 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 Nôtre Dame de Lorette (which is quite peopled with painters); he
arrives at his atelier at a tolerably early hour, and labours among a
score of companions as merry and poor as himself. Each gentleman has his
favourite tobacco-pipe; and the pictures are painted in the midst of a
cloud of smoke, and a din of puns and choice French slang, and a roar of
choruses, of which no one can form an idea that has not been present at
such an assembly.
[Illustration]
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 _toupées_ in
the famous Louis-Philippe fashion; some are cropped close; some have
adopted the present mode--which he who would follow must, in order to do
so, part his hair in the middle, grease it with grease, and gum it with
gum, and iron it flat down over his ears; when arrived at the ears, you
take the tongs and make a couple of ranges of curls close round the
whole head--such curls as you may see under a gilt three-cornered hat,
and in her Britannic Majesty’s coachman’s state wig.
This is the last fashion. As for the beards, there is no end to them;
all my friends the artists have beards who can raise them; and Nature,
though she has rather stinted 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 _pékin_:--from the height of their poverty they look down upon
him with the greatest imaginable scorn--a scorn, I think, by which the
citizen seems dazzled, for his respect for the arts is intense. The case
is very different in England, where a grocer’s daughter would think she
made a _mésalliance_ 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 Brantôme says, and entertained them in a proper
ministerial magnificence. The splendid and beautiful Duchess of Dash was
at one of his ministerial parties; and went, a fortnight afterwards, as
in duty bound, to pay her respects to M. Guizot. But it happened, in
this fortnight, that M. Guizot was Minister no longer; but gave up his
portfolio, and his grand hotel, to retire into private life, and to
occupy his humble apartments in the house which he possesses, and of
which he lets the greater portion. A friend of mine was present at one
of the ex-Minister’s _soirées_, where the Duchess of Dash made her
appearance. He says the Duchess, at her entrance, seemed quite
astounded, and examined the premises with a most curious wonder. Two or
three shabby little rooms, with ordinary furniture, and a Minister _en
retraite_, who lives by letting lodgings! In our country was ever such a
thing heard of? No, thank Heaven! and a Briton ought to be proud of the
difference.
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 École 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 neighbourhood 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 sæcula sæculorum_; 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 bulk.
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 neighbours, whose ideas fit us
no more than their breeches! It is the study of Nature, surely, that
profits us, and not of these imitations of her. A man, as a man, from a
dustman up to Æschylus, is God’s work, and good to read, as all works of
Nature are: but the silly animal is never content; is ever trying to fit
itself into another shape; wants to deny its own identity, and has not
the courage to utter its own thoughts. Because Lord Byron was wicked,
and quarrelled with the world, and found himself growing fit, and
quarrelled with his victuals, and thus, naturally, grew ill-humoured,
did not half Europe grow ill-humoured too? Did not every poet feel his
young affections withered, and despair and darkness cast upon his soul?
Because certain mighty men of old could make heroical statues and plays,
must we not be told that there is no other 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 colour of the paintings seems, as much as possible, to
participate in it: they are mostly of a misty, stony-green, dismal hue,
as if they had been painted in a world where no colour was. In every
picture there are, of course, white mantles, white urns, white columns,
white statues--those _obligés_ 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’ Medici 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 ἁναξ ἁνδρὡν
to eternity: and there is a classical quotation, which you may have
occasionally heard, beginning _Vixere fortes_, etc., 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. Shakespeare made a better man when his imagination moulded
the mighty figure of Macbeth. And if you will measure Satan by
Prometheus, the blind old Puritan’s work by that of the fiery Grecian
poet, does not Milton’s angel surpass Æschylus’s--surpass him by ‘many a
rood’?
In this 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 Michael 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 labour 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 École 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
_émeutes_ which are to take place; and where, as everybody knows, is the
picture-gallery of modern French artists whom Government thinks worthy
of patronage.
A very great proportion of these, 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 vigour. There is Brutus, having chopped his son’s head off, with
all the agony of a father; and then, calling for number two, there is
Æneas carrying off old Anchises; there are Paris and Venus, as naked as
two Hottentots, and many more such choice subjects from Lemprière.
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 Légion d’Honneur. ‘The Grand
Dauphiness Dying.’
18. Blondel, Chevalier de la, etc. ‘Zenobia found Dead.’
36. Debay, Chevalier. ‘The Death of Lucretia.’
38. Dejuinne. ‘The Death of Hector.’
34. Court, Chevalier de la, etc. ‘The Death of Cæsar.’
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. Guérin, Chevalier. ‘Cain, after the Death of Abel.’
83. Jacquand. ‘Death of Adelaide de Comminges.’
88. ‘The Death of Eudamidas.’
93. ‘The Death of Hymetto.’
103. ‘The Death of Philip of Austria.’
And so on.
You see what woeful 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 anti-humbuggists should heartily, according to
the strength that is in them, endeavour 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 τὑπτω,
and that their school learning carried them not as far as the letter,
but only to the game of taw. How were they to be inspired by such
subjects? From having seen Talma and Mademoiselle Georges flaunting in
sham Greek costumes, and having read up the articles Eudamidas, Hecuba,
in the _Mythological Dictionary_. What a classicism, inspired by rouge,
gas-lamps, and a few lines in Lemprière, and copied, half from ancient
statues, and half from a naked guardsman at one shilling and sixpence
the hour!
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 τἑκνα φἱλτατα. 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 Duke of Guise, and I don’t
know whom besides. He is, at present, occupied with a vast work at the
Beaux Arts, where the writer of this had the honour of seeing him--a
little, keen-looking man, some five feet in height. He wore, on this
important occasion, a bandanna round his head, and was in the act of
smoking a cigar.
Horace Vernet, whose beautiful daughter Delaroche married, is the king
of French battle-painters--an amazingly rapid and dexterous draughtsman,
who has Napoleon and all the campaigns by heart, and has painted the
Grenadier Français under all sorts of attitudes. His pictures on such
subjects are spirited, natural, and excellent; and he is so clever a
man, that all he does is good, to a certain degree. His ‘Judith’ is
somewhat violent, perhaps. His ‘Rebecca’ most pleasing, and not the less
so for a little pretty affectation of attitude and needless singularity
of costume. ‘Raphael and Michael Angelo’ is as clever a picture as can
be--clever is just the word--the groups and drawing excellent, the
colouring pleasantly bright and gaudy; and the French students study it
incessantly; there are a dozen who copy it for one who copies Delacroix.
His little scraps of woodcuts, 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 Cæsar,’ is remarkable for effect
and excellent workmanship; and the head of Brutus (who looks like Armand
Carrel) is full of energy. There are some beautiful heads of women, and
some very good colour in the picture. Jacquand’s ‘Death of Adelaide de
Comminge’ 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 colour very good. Decaisne’s ‘Guardian
Angel’ is not so good in colour, 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 honours 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 Dürer, and which is making progress here.
For everything here finds imitation: the French have the genius of
imitation and caricature. This absurd humbug, called the Christian or
Catholic art, is sure to tickle our neighbours, and will be a favourite
with them, when better known. My dear MacGilp, I do believe this to be a
greater humbug than the humbug of David and Girodet, inasmuch as the
latter was founded on Nature at least; whereas the former is made up of
silly affectations and improvements upon Nature. Here, for instance, is
Chevalier Ziegler’s picture of ‘St. Luke painting the Virgin.’ St. Luke
has a monk’s dress on, embroidered, however, smartly round the sleeves.
The Virgin sits in an immense yellow-ochre halo, with her son in her
arms. She looks preternaturally solemn; as does St. Luke, who is eyeing
his paint-brush with an intense ominous mystical look. They call this
Catholic art. There is nothing, my dear friend, more easy in life.
First, take your colours, and rub them down clean,--bright carmine,
bright yellow, bright 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
colours; and if on a gold ground, the more ‘Catholic’ your art is. Dress
your apostles like priests before the altar; and remember to have a good
commodity of crosiers, censers, and other such gimcracks, as you may see
in the Catholic chapels, in Sutton Street and elsewhere. Deal in
Virgins, and dress them like a burgomaster’s wife by Cranach or Van
Eyck. Give them all long twisted tails to their gowns, and proper
angular draperies. Place all their heads on one side, with the eyes
shut, and the proper solemn simper. At the back of the head, draw, and
gild with gold-leaf, a halo, or glory, of the exact shape of a
cart-wheel: and you have the thing done. It is Catholic art _tout
craché_, as Louis Philippe says. We have it still in England, handed
down to us for four centuries, in the pictures on the cards, as the
redoubtable king and queen of clubs. Look at them: you will see that the
costumes and attitudes are precisely similar to those which figure in
the catholicities of the school of Overbeck and Cornelius.
Before you take your cane at the door, look for one instant at the
statue-room. Yonder is Jouffley’s ‘Jeune Fille confiant son premier
secret à Vénus.’ Charming, charming! It is from the exhibition of this
year only; and, I think, the best sculpture in the gallery--pretty,
fanciful, _naïve_; admirable in workmanship and imitation of Nature. I
have seldom seen flesh better represented in marble. Examine, also,
Jaley’s ‘Pudeur,’ Jacquot’s ‘Nymph,’ and Rude’s ‘Boy with the Tortoise.’
These are not very exalted subjects, or what are called exalted, and do
not go beyond simple, smiling beauty and nature. But what then? Are we
gods, Miltons, Michael 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 Dædalus; 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 gaily
conducted us across the water; and _le garde qui veille à la porte du
Louvre ne défend 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 Alladin’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.