Such discussions and violent attacks upon high and low, Sabbath Bills,

politicians, and what not, may appear, perhaps, out of place, in a few

pages which purport only to give an account of some French drawings: all

we would urge is, that, in France, these prints are made because they

are liked and appreciated; with us they are not made, because they are

not liked and appreciated; and the more is the pity. Nothing merely

intellectual will be popular among us: we do not love beauty for

beauty’s sake, as Germans; or wit, for wit’s sake, as the French: for

abstract art we have no appreciation. We admire H. B.’s caricatures,

because they are the caricatures of well-known political characters, not

because they are witty; and Boz, because he writes us good palpable

stories (if we may use such a word to a story); and Madame Vestris,

because she has the most beautifully shaped legs;--the _art_ of the

designer, the writer, the actress (each admirable in its way), is a very

minor consideration; each might have ten times the wit, and would be

quite unsuccessful without their substantial points of popularity.

In France such matters are far better managed, and the love of art is a

thousand times more keen; and (from this feeling, surely) how much

superiority is there in French _society_ over our own; how much better

is social happiness understood; how much more manly equality is there

between Frenchman and Frenchman, than between rich and poor in our own

country, with all our superior wealth, instruction, and political

freedom! There is, amongst the humblest, a gaiety, cheerfulness,

politeness, and sobriety, to which in England no class can show a

parallel; and these, be it remembered, are not only qualities for

holidays, but for working days too, and add to the enjoyment of human

life as much as good clothes, good beef, or good wages. If, to our

freedom, we could but add a little of their happiness!--it is one, after

all, of the cheapest commodities in the world, and in the power of every

man (with means of gaining decent bread) who has the will or the skill

to use it.

We are not going to trace the history of the rise and progress of art in

France: our business, at present, is only to speak of one branch of art

in that country--lithographic designs, and those chiefly of a humorous

character. A history of French caricature was published in Paris, two or

three years back, illustrated by numerous copies of designs, from the

time of Henry III. to our own day. We can only speak of this work from

memory, having been unable, in London, to procure the sight of a copy;

but our impression, at the time we saw the collection, was as

unfavourable as could possibly be; nothing could be more meagre than the

wit, or poorer than the execution, of the whole set of drawings. Under

the Empire, art, as may be imagined, was at a very low ebb; and aping

the Government of the day, and catering to the national taste and

vanity, it was a kind of tawdry caricature of the sublime; of which the

pictures of David and Girodet, and almost the entire collection now at

the Luxembourg Palace, will give pretty fair examples. Swollen,

distorted, unnatural, the painting was something like the politics of

those days; with force in it, nevertheless, and something of grandeur,

that will exist in spite of taste, and is born of energetic will. A man,

disposed to write comparisons of characters, might, for instance, find

some striking analogies between Mountebank Murat, with his irresistible

bravery and horsemanship, who was a kind of mixture of Duguesclin and

Ducrow, and Mountebank David, a fierce powerful painter and genius,

whose idea of beauty and sublimity seem to have been gained from the

bloody melodramas on the Boulevard. Both, however, were great in their

way, and were worshipped as gods in those heathen times of false belief

and hero-worship.

As for poor caricature and freedom of the press, they, like the rightful

princess in a fairy tale, with the merry fantastic dwarf, her attendant,

were entirely in the power of the giant who ruled the land. The Princess

Press was so closely watched and guarded (with some little show,

nevertheless, of respect for her rank), that she dared not utter a word

of her own thoughts; and, for poor Caricature, he was gagged, and put

out of the way altogether: imprisoned as completely as ever Asmodeus was

in his phial.

How the Press and her attendant fared in succeeding reigns, is well

known; their condition was little bettered by the downfall of Napoleon:

with the accession of Charles X. they were more oppressed even than

before--more than they could bear; for so hard were they pressed, that,

as one has seen when sailors were working a capstan, back of a sudden

the bars flew, knocking to the earth the men who were endeavouring to

work them. The Revolution came, and up sprang Caricature in France; all

sorts of fierce epigrams were discharged at the flying monarch, and

speedily were prepared, too, for the new one.

About this time there lived at Paris (if our information be correct) a

certain M. Philipon, an indifferent artist (painting was his

profession), a tolerable designer, and an admirable wit. M. Philipon

designed many caricatures himself, married the sister of an eminent

publisher of prints (M. Aubert), and the two, gathering about them a

body of wits and artists like themselves, set up journals of their

own:--_La Caricature_, first published once a week; and the _Charivari_

afterwards, a daily paper, in which a design also appears daily.

At first the caricatures inserted in the _Charivari_ were chiefly

political; and a most curious contest speedily commenced between the

State and M. Philipon’s little army in the Galerie Véro-Dodat. Half a

dozen poor artists on the one side, and his Majesty Louis Philippe, his

august family, and the numberless placemen and supporters of the

monarchy, on the other; it was something like Thersites girding at Ajax,

and piercing through the folds of the _clypei septemplicis_ with the

poisonous shifts of his scorn. Our French Thersites was not always an

honest opponent, it must be confessed; and many an attack was made upon

the gigantic enemy, which was cowardly, false, and malignant. But to see

the monster writhing under the effects of the arrow--to see his uncouth

fury in return, and the blind blows that he dealt at his diminutive

opponent!--not one of these told in a hundred; when they _did_ tell, it

may be imagined that they were fierce enough in all conscience, and

served almost to annihilate the adversary.

To speak more plainly, and to drop the metaphor of giant and dwarf, the

King of the French suffered so much, his Ministers were so mercilessly

ridiculed, his family and his own remarkable figure drawn with such

odious and grotesque resemblance, in fanciful attitudes, circumstances,

and disguises, so ludicrously mean, and often so appropriate, that the

King was obliged to descend into the lists and battle his ridiculous

enemy in form. Prosecutions, seizures, fines, regiments of furious legal

officials, were first brought into play against poor M. Philipon and his

little dauntless troop of malicious artists; some few were bribed out of

his ranks; and if they did not, like Gilray in England, turn their

weapons upon their old friends, at least laid down their arms, and would

fight no more. The bribes, fines, indictments, and loud-tongued _avocats

du Roi_ made no impression; Philipon repaired the defeat of a fine by

some fresh and furious attack upon his great enemy; if his epigrams were

more covert, they were no less bitter; if he was beaten a dozen times

before a jury, he had eighty or ninety victories to show in the same

field of battle, and every victory and every defeat brought him new

sympathy. Every one who was at Paris a few years since must recollect

the famous ‘_poire_’ which was chalked upon all the walls of the city,

and which bore so ludicrous a resemblance to Louis Philippe. The _poire_

became an object of prosecution, and M. Philipon appeared before a jury

to answer for the crime of inciting to contempt against the King’s

person, by giving such a ludicrous version of his face. Philipon, for

defence, produced a sheet of paper, and drew a _poire_, a real large

Burgundy pear: in the lower parts round and capacious, narrower near the

stalk, and crowned with two or three careless leaves. ‘There was no

treason at least in _that_,’ he said to the jury; ‘could any one object

to such a harmless botanical representation?’ Then he drew a second

pear, exactly like the former, except that one or two lines were

scrawled in the midst of it, which bore, somehow, a ludicrous

resemblance to the eyes, nose, and mouth of a celebrated personage; and,

lastly, he drew the exact portrait of Louis Philippe; the well-known

toupet, the ample whiskers and jowl were there, neither extenuated nor

set down in malice. ‘Can I help it, gentlemen of the jury, then,’ said

he, ‘if his Majesty’s face is like a pear? Say you, yourselves,

respectable citizens, is it, or is it not, like a pear?’ Such eloquence

could not fail of its effect; the artist was acquitted, and _La Poire_

is immortal.

At last came the famous September laws: the freedom of the Press,

which, from August 1830, was to be ‘désormais une vérité,’ was calmly

strangled by the monarch who had gained his crown for his supposed

championship of it; by his Ministers, some of whom had been stout

Republicans on paper but a few years before; and by the Chamber, which,

such is the blessed constitution of French elections, will generally

vote, unvote, revote in any way the Government wishes. With a wondrous

union, and happy forgetfulness of principle, monarch, Ministers, and

deputies issued the restriction laws; the Press was sent to prison; as

for the poor dear Caricature, it was fairly murdered. No more political

satires appear now, and ‘through the eye, correct the heart;’ no more

_poires_ ripen on the walls of the metropolis; Philipon’s political

occupation is gone.

But there is always food for satire; and the French caricaturists, being

no longer allowed to hold up to ridicule and reprobation the King and

the deputies, have found no lack of subjects for the pencil in the

ridicules and rascalities of common life. We have said that public

decency is greater amongst the French than amongst us, which, to some of

our readers, may appear paradoxical; but we shall not attempt to argue

that, in private roguery, our neighbours are not our equals. The

_procès_ of Gisquet, which has appeared lately in the papers, shows how

deep the demoralisation must be, and how a Government, based itself on

dishonesty (a tyranny that is under the title and fiction of a

democracy), must practise and admit corruption in its own and in its

agents’ dealings with the nation. Accordingly, of cheating contracts, of

Ministers dabbling with the funds, or extracting underhand profits for

the granting of unjust privileges and monopolies,--of grasping, envious

police restrictions, which destroy the freedom, and, with it, the

integrity of commerce,--those who like to examine such details may find

plenty in French history; the whole French finance system has been a

swindle from the days of Louvois, or Law, down to the present time. The

Government swindles the public, and the small traders swindle their

customers, on the authority and example of the superior powers. Hence

the art of roguery, under such high patronage, maintains in France a

noble front of impudence, and a fine audacious openness, which it does

not wear in our country.

Among the various characters of roguery which the French satirists have

amused themselves by depicting, there is one of which the _greatness_

(using the word in the sense which Mr. Jonathan Wild gave to it) so far

exceeds that of all others, embracing, as it does, all in turn, that it

has come to be considered the type of roguery in general; and now, just

as all the political squibs were made to come of old from the lips of

Pasquin, all the reflections on the prevailing cant, knavery, quackery,

humbug, are put into the mouth of Monsieur Robert Macaire.

A play was written, some twenty years since, called the _Auberge des

Adrets_, in which the characters of two robbers escaped from the galleys

were introduced--Robert Macaire, the clever rogue above mentioned, and

Bertrand, the stupid rogue, his friend, accomplice, butt, and scapegoat,

on all occasions of danger. It is needless to describe the play--a

witless performance enough, of which the joke was Macaire’s exaggerated

style of conversation, a farrago of all sorts of highflown sentiments,

such as the French love to indulge in--contrasted with his actions,

which were philosophically unscrupulous, and his appearance, which was

most picturesquely sordid. The play had been acted, we believe, and

forgotten, when a very clever actor, M. Frédéric Lemaître, took upon

himself the performance of the character of Robert Macaire, and looked,

spoke, and acted it to such admirable perfection, that the whole town

rung with applauses of his performance, and the caricaturists delighted

to copy his singular figure and costume. M. Robert Macaire appears in a

most picturesque green coat, with a variety of rents and patches, a pair

of crimson pantaloons ornamented in the same way, enormous whiskers and

ringlets, an enormous stock and shirt-frill, as dirty and ragged as

stock and shirt-frill can be, the relic of a hat very gaily cocked over

one eye, and a patch to take away somewhat from the brightness of the

other--these are the principal _pièces_ of his costume--a snuff-box like

a creaking warming-pan, a handkerchief hanging together by a miracle,

and a switch of about the thickness of a man’s thigh, formed the

ornaments of this exquisite personage. He is a compound of Fielding’s

‘Blueskin’ and Goldsmith’s ‘Beau Tibbs.’ He has the dirt and dandyism of

the one, with the ferocity of the other: sometimes he is made to

swindle, but where he can get a shilling more, M. Macaire will murder

without scruple: he performs one and the other act (or any in the scale

between them) with a similar bland imperturbability, and accompanies his

actions with such philosophical remarks as may be expected from a person

of his talents, his energies, his amiable life and character.

Bertrand is the simple recipient of Macaire’s jokes, and makes vicarious

atonement for his crimes, acting, in fact, the part which Pantaloon

performs in the pantomime, who is entirely under the fatal influence of

Clown. He is quite as much a rogue as that gentleman, but he has not his

genius and courage. So in pantomimes (it may, doubtless, have been

remarked by the reader), Clown always leaps first, Pantaloon following

after, more clumsily and timidly than his bold and accomplished friend

and guide. Whatever blows are destined for Clown fall, by some means of

ill luck, upon the pate of Pantaloon; whenever the Clown robs, the

stolen articles are sure to be found in his companion’s pocket; and thus

exactly Robert Macaire and his companion Bertrand are made to go through

the world; both swindlers, but the one more accomplished than the other.

Both robbing all the world, and Robert robbing his friend, and, in the

event of danger, leaving him faithfully in the lurch. There is, in the

two characters, some grotesque good for the spectator--a kind of

_Beggars’ Opera_ moral.

Ever since Robert, with his dandified rags and airs, his cane and

snuff-box, and Bertrand with torn surtout and all-absorbing pocket, have

appeared on the stage, they have been popular with the Parisians; and

with these two types of clever and stupid knavery, M. Philipon and his

companion Daumier have created a world of pleasant satire upon all the

prevailing abuses of the day.

Almost the first figure that these audacious caricaturists dared to

depict was a political one: in Macaire’s red breeches and tattered coat

appeared no less a personage than the King himself--the old _Poire_--in

a country of humbugs and swindlers the _facile princeps_; fit to govern,

as he is deeper than all the rogues in his dominions. Bertrand was

opposite to him, and having listened with delight and reverence to some

tale of knavery truly Royal, was exclaiming with a look and voice

expressive of the most intense admiration, ‘AH, VIEUX BLAGUEUR!

va!’--the word _blague_ is untranslatable--it means _French_ humbug, as

distinct from all other; and only those who know the value of an epigram

in France, an epigram so wonderfully just, a little word so curiously

comprehensive, can fancy the kind of rage and rapture with which it was

received. It was a blow that shook the whole dynasty. Thersites had

there given such a wound to Ajax, as Hector in arms could scarcely have

inflicted: a blow sufficient almost to create the madness to which the

fabulous hero of Homer and Ovid fell a prey.

Not long, however, was French caricature allowed to attack personages so

illustrious: the September laws came, and henceforth no more epigrams

were launched against politics, but the caricaturists were compelled to

confine their satire to subjects and characters that had nothing to do

with the State. The Duke of Orleans was no longer to figure in

lithography as the fantastic Prince Rosolin; no longer were multitudes

(in chalk) to shelter under the enormous shadow of M. d’Argout’s nose;

Marshal Lohan’s squirt was hung up in peace, and M. Thiers’s pigmy

figure and round spectacled face were no more to appear in print.[5]

Robert Macaire was driven out of the Chambers and the Palace--his

remarks were a great deal too appropriate and too severe for the ears of

the great men who congregated in those places.

The Chambers and the Palace were shut to him; but the rogue, driven out

of this rogue’s paradise, saw ‘that the world was all before him where

to choose,’ and found no lack of opportunities for exercising his wit.

There was the Bar, with its roguish practitioners, rascally attorneys,

stupid juries, and forsworn judges; there was the Bourse, with all its

gambling, swindling, and hoaxing, its cheats and its dupes; the Medical

Profession, and the quacks who ruled it, alternately; the Stage, and the

cant that was prevalent there; the Fashion, and its thousand follies and

extravagances. Robert Macaire had all these to _exploiter_. Of all the

empire, through all the ranks, professions, the lies, crimes, and

absurdities of men, he may make sport at will: of all except of a

certain class. Like Bluebeard’s wife, he may see everything, but is

bidden _to beware of the blue chamber_. Robert is more wise than

Bluebeard’s wife, and knows that it would cost him his head to enter it.

Robert therefore keeps aloof for the moment. Would there be any use in

his martyrdom? Bluebeard cannot live for ever; perhaps, even now, those

are on their way (one sees a suspicious cloud of dust or two) that are

to destroy him.

In the meantime Robert and his friend have been furnishing the designs

that we have before us, and of which perhaps the reader will be edified

by a brief description. We are not, to be sure, to judge of the French

nation by M. Macaire, any more than we are to judge of our own national

morals in the last century by such a book as the _Beggars’ Opera_; but

upon the morals and the national manners, works of satire afford a world

of light that one would in vain look for in regular books of history.

Doctor Smollett would have blushed to devote any considerable portion of

his pages to a discussion of the acts and character of Mr. Jonathan

Wild, such a figure being hardly admissible among the dignified

personages who usually push all others out from the possession of the

historical page; but a chapter of that gentleman’s memoirs, as they are

recorded in that exemplary _recueil_--the _Newgate Calendar_; nay, a

canto of the great comic epic (involving many fables, and containing

much exaggeration, but still having the seeds of truth) which the

satirical poet of those days wrote in celebration of him--we mean

Fielding’s _History of Jonathan Wild the Great_--does seem to us to

give a more curious picture of the manners of those times than any

recognised history of them. At the close of his history of George II.,

Smollett condescends to give a short chapter on Literature and Manners.

He speaks of Glover’s _Leonidas_, Cibber’s _Careless Husband_, the poems

of Mason, Grey, the two Whiteheads, ‘the nervous style, extensive

erudition, and superior sense of a Cooke; the delicate taste, the

polished muse, and tender feeling of a Lyttelton.’ ‘King,’ he says,

‘shone unrivalled in Roman eloquence; the female sex distinguished

themselves by their taste and ingenuity. Miss Carte rivalled the

celebrated Dacier in learning and critical knowledge; Mrs. Lennox

signalised herself by many successful efforts of genius both in poetry

and prose; and Miss Reid excelled the celebrated Rosalba in

portrait-painting, both in miniature and at large, in oil as well as in

crayons. The genius of Cervantes was transferred into the novels of

Fielding, who painted the characters and ridiculed the follies of life

with equal strength, humour, and propriety. The field of history and

biography was cultivated by many writers of ability, among whom we

distinguish the copious Guthrie, the circumstantial Ralph, the laborious

Carte, the learned and elegant Robertson, and, above all, the ingenious,

penetrating, and comprehensive Hume,’ etc. We will quote no more of the

passage. Could a man in the best humour sit down to write a graver

satire? Who cares for the tender muse of Lyttelton? Who knows the signal

efforts of Mrs. Lennox’s genius? Who has seen the admirable

performances, in miniature and at large, in oil as well as in crayons,

of a Miss Reid? Laborious Carte, and circumstantial Ralph, and copious

Guthrie, where are they, their works, and their reputation? Mrs.

Lennox’s name is just as clean wiped out of the list of worthies as if

she had never been born; and Miss Reid, though she was once actual flesh

and blood, ‘rival in miniature and at large’ of the celebrated Rosalba,

she is as if she had never been at all; her little farthing rushlight of

a soul and reputation having burnt out, and left neither wick nor

tallow. Death, too, has overtaken copious Guthrie and circumstantial

Ralph. Only a few know whereabouts is the grave where lies laborious

Carte; and yet, O wondrous power of genius! Fielding’s men and women are

alive, though History’s are not. The progenitors of circumstantial Ralph

sent forth, after much labour and pains of making, educating, feeding,

clothing, a real man child, a great palpable mass of flesh, bones, and

blood (we say nothing about the spirit), which was to move through the

world, ponderous, writing histories, and to die, having achieved the

title of circumstantial Ralph; and lo! without any of the trouble that

the parents of Ralph had undergone, alone perhaps in a watch-or

spunging-house, fuddled most likely, in the blandest, easiest, and most

good-humoured way in the world, Henry Fielding makes a number of men and

women on so many sheets of paper, not only more amusing than Ralph or

Miss Reid, but more like flesh and blood, and more alive now than they.

Is not Amelia preparing her husband’s little supper? Is not Miss Snap

chastely preventing the crime of Mr. Firebrand? Is not Parson Adams in

the midst of his family, and Mr. Wild taking his last bowl of punch with

the Newgate Ordinary? Is not every one of them a real substantial

_have_-been personage now?--more real than Reid or Ralph? For our parts,

we will not take upon ourselves to say that they do not exist somewhere

else, that the actions attributed to them have not really taken place;

certain we are that they are more worthy of credence than Ralph, who may

or may not have been circumstantial; who may or may not even have

existed, a point unworthy of disputation. As for Miss Reid, we will take

an affidavit that neither in miniature nor at large did she excel the

celebrated Rosalba; and with regard to Mrs. Lennox, we consider her to

be a mere figment, like Narcissa, Miss Tabitha Bramble, or any hero or

heroine depicted by the historian of _Peregrine Pickle_.

In like manner, after viewing nearly ninety portraits of Robert Macaire

and his friend Bertrand, all strongly resembling each other, we are

inclined to believe in them both as historical personages, and to

canvass gravely the circumstances of their lives. Why should we not?

Have we not their portraits? Are not they sufficient proofs? If not, we

must discredit Napoleon (as Archbishop Whateley teaches), for about his

figure and himself we have no more authentic testimony.

Let the reality of M. Robert Macaire and his friend M. Bertrand be

granted, if but to gratify our own fondness for those exquisite

characters: we find the worthy pair in the French capital, mingling with

all grades of its society, _pars magna_ in the intrigues, pleasures,

perplexities, rogueries, speculations, which are carried on in Paris,

as in our own chief city; for it need not be said that roguery is of no

country nor clime, but finds ὡς πανταχοὑ γε πατρἱς ἡ βὁσκουσα γἡ, is a

citizen of all countries where the quarters are good; among our merry

neighbours it finds itself very much at its ease.

Not being endowed, then, with patrimonial wealth, but compelled to

exercise their genius to obtain distinction, or even subsistence, we see

Messrs. Bertrand and Macaire, by turns, adopting all trades and

professions, and exercising each with their own peculiar ingenuity. As

public men, we have spoken already of their appearance in one or two

important characters, and stated that the Government grew fairly jealous

of them, excluding them from office, as the Whigs did Lord Brougham. As

private individuals they are made to distinguish themselves as the

founders of journals, _sociétés en commandite_ (companies of which the

members are irresponsible beyond the amount of their shares), and all

sorts of commercial speculations, requiring intelligence and honesty on

the part of the directors, confidence and liberal disbursements from the

shareholders.

These are, among the French, so numerous, and have been, of late years

(in the shape of Newspaper Companies, Bitumen Companies, Galvanised-Iron

Companies, Railroad Companies, etc.), pursued with such a blind _furor_

and lust of gain by that easily excited and imaginative people, that, as

may be imagined, the satirist has found plenty of occasion for remark,

and M. Macaire and his friend innumerable opportunities for exercising

their talents.

We know nothing of M. Emile de Girardin, except that, in a duel, he shot

the best man in France, Armand Carrel; and in Girardin’s favour it must

be said, that he had no other alternative; but was right in provoking

the duel, seeing that the whole Republican party had vowed his

destruction, and that he fought and killed their champion, as it were.

We know nothing of M. Girardin’s private character; but, as far as we

can judge from the French public prints, he seems to be the most

speculative of speculators, and, of course, a fair butt for the malice

of the caricaturists. His one great crime, in the eyes of the French

Republicans and Republican newspaper proprietors, was, that Girardin set

up a journal, as he called it, ‘franchement monarchique,’--a journal in

the pay of the monarchy, that is,--and a journal that cost only forty

francs by the year. The _National_ costs twice as much; the _Charivari_

itself costs half as much again; and though all newspapers, of all

parties, concurred in ‘snubbing’ poor M. Girardin and his journal, the

Republican prints were by far the most bitter against him, thundering

daily accusations and personalities; whether the abuse was well or ill

founded, we know not. Hence arose the duel with Carrel; after the

termination of which, Girardin put by his pistol, and vowed, very

properly, to assist in the shedding of no more blood. Girardin had been

the originator of numerous other speculations besides the journal: the

capital of these, like that of the journal, was raised by shares, and

the shareholders, by some fatality, have found themselves woefully in

the lurch; while Girardin carries on the war gaily, is, or was, a

_member of_ the Chamber of Deputies, has money, goes to Court, and

possesses a certain kind of reputation. He invented, we believe, the

‘Institution Agronome de Coetbo,’[6] the ‘Physionotype,’ the ‘Journal

des Connaissances Utiles,’ the ‘Panthéon Littéraire,’ and the system of

‘Primes’--premiums, that is--to be given, by lottery, to certain

subscribers in these institutions. Could Robert Macaire see such things

going on, and have no hand in them?

Accordingly Messrs. Macaire and Bertrand are made the heroes of many

speculations of the kind. In almost the first print of our collection,

Robert discourses to Bertrand of his projects. ‘Bertrand,’ says the

disinterested admirer of talent and enterprise, ‘j’adore l’industrie. Si

tu veux, nous créons une banque, mais là, une vraie banque: capital,

cent millions de millions, cent milliards de milliards d’actions. Nous

enfonçons la banque de France, les banquiers, les banquistes; nous

enfonçons tout le monde.’ ‘Oui,’ says Bertrand, very calm and stupid,

‘mais les gendarmes?’ ‘Que tu es bête, Bertrand: est-ce qu’on arrête un

millionnaire?’ Such is the key to M. Macaire’s philosophy; and a wise

creed too, as times go.

Acting on these principles, Robert appears soon after; he has not

created a bank, but a journal. He sits in a chair of state, and

discourses to a shareholder. Bertrand, calm and stupid as before, stands

humbly behind. ‘Sir,’ says the editor of _La Blague_, journal

quotidienne, ‘our profits arise from a new combination. The journal

costs twenty francs; we sell it for twenty-three and a-half. A million

subscribers make three millions and a-half of profits; there are my

figures; contradict me by figures, or I will bring an action for libel.’

The reader may fancy the scene takes place in England, where many such a

swindling prospectus has obtained credit ere now. At Plate 33, Robert is

still a journalist; he brings to the editor of a paper an article of his

composition, a violent attack on a law. ‘My dear M. Macaire,’ says the

editor, ‘this must be changed; we must _praise_ this law.’ ‘Bon, bon!’

says our versatile Macaire. ‘Je vais retoucher ça, et je vous fais en

faveur de la loi _un article mousseux_.’

Can such things be? Is it possible that French journalists can so forget

themselves? The rogues! they should come to England and learn

consistency. The honesty of the Press in England is like the air we

breathe, without it we die. No, no! in France the satire may do very

well; but for England it is too monstrous. Call the Press stupid, call

it vulgar, call it violent,--but honest it _is_. Who ever heard of a

journal changing its politics? _O tempora! O mores!_ as Robert Macaire

says, this would be carrying the joke too far.

When he has done with newspapers, Robert Macaire begins to distinguish

himself on ‘Change,[7] as a creator of companies, a vendor of shares, or

a dabbler in foreign stock. ‘Buy my coal-mine shares,’ shouts Robert;

‘gold mines, silver mines, diamond mines, “sont de la pot-bouille, de la

ratatouille en comparaison de ma houille.”’ ‘Look,’ says he, on another

occasion, to a very timid open-countenanced client, ‘you have a property

to sell! I have found the very man, a rich capitalist, a fellow whose

bills are better than bank-notes.’ His client sells; the bills are taken

in payment, and signed by that respectable capitalist, Monsieur de Saint

Bertrand. At Plate 81, we find him inditing a circular letter to all the

world, running thus:--‘Sir,--I regret to say that your application for

shares in the Consolidated European Incombustible Blacking Association

cannot be complied with, as all the shares of the C.E.I.B.A. were

disposed of on the day they were issued. I have, nevertheless,

registered your name, and in case a second series should be put forth, I

shall have the honour of immediately giving you notice. I am, sir,

yours, etc., the Director, ROBERT MACAIRE.’--‘Print three hundred

thousand of these,’ he says to Bertrand, ‘and poison all France with

them.’ As usual, the stupid Bertrand remonstrates--‘But we have not sold

a single share; you have not a penny in your pocket, and----’

‘Bertrand, you are an ass; do as I bid you.’

Will this satire apply anywhere in England? Have we any Consolidated

European Blacking Associations amongst us? Have we penniless directors

issuing El Dorado prospectuses, and jockeying their shares through the

market? For information on this head, we must refer the reader to the

newspapers; or if he be connected with the City, and acquainted with

commercial men, he will be able to say whether _all_ the persons whose

names figure at the head of announcements of projected companies are as

rich as Rothschild, or quite as honest as heart could desire.

When Macaire has sufficiently _exploité_ the Bourse, whether as a

gambler in the public funds or other companies, he sagely perceives that

it is time to turn to some other profession, and, providing himself with

a black gown, proposes blandly to Bertrand to set up--a new religion.

‘Mon ami,’ says the repentant sinner, ‘le temps de la commandite va

passer, _mais les badauds ne passeront pas_.’ (O rare sentence! it

should be written in letters of gold!) ‘_Occupons-nous de ce qui est

éternel._ Si nous fassions une religion?’ On which M. Bertrand remarks,

‘A religion! what the devil--a religion is not an easy thing to make.’

But Macaire’s receipt is easy. ‘Get a gown, take a shop,’ he says,

‘borrow some chairs, preach about Napoleon, or the discovery of America,

or Molière--and there’s a religion for you.’

We have quoted this sentence more for the contrast it offers with our

own manners, than for its merits. After the noble paragraph, ‘Les

badauds ne passeront pas. Occupons-nous de ce qui est éternel,’ one

would have expected better satire upon cant than the words that follow.

We are not in a condition to say whether the subjects chosen are those

that had been selected by Père Enfantin, or Chatel, or Lacordaire; but

the words are curious, we think, for the very reason that the satire is

so poor. The fact is, there is no religion in Paris; even clever M.

Philipon, who satirises everything, and must know, therefore, some

little about the subject which he ridicules, has nothing to say but,

‘Preach a sermon, and that makes a religion; anything will do.’ If

_anything_ will do, it is clear that the religious commodity is not in

much demand. Tartuffe had better things to say about hypocrisy in his

time; but then Faith was alive; now, there is no satirising religious

cant in France, for its contrary, true religion, has disappeared

altogether; and having no substance, can cast no shadow. If a satirist

would lash the religious hypocrites in _England_ now--the High Church

hypocrites, the Low Church hypocrites, the promiscuous Dissenting

hypocrites, the No-Popery hypocrites--he would have ample subject

enough. In France, the religious hypocrites went out with the Bourbons.

Those who remain pious in that country (or, rather, we should say, in

the capital, for of that we speak) are unaffectedly so, for they have no

worldly benefit to hope for from their piety; the great majority have no

religion at all, and do not scoff at the few, for scoffing is the

minority’s weapon, and is passed always to the weaker side, whatever

that may be. Thus H. B. caricatures the Ministers: if by any accident

that body of men should be dismissed from their situations, and be

succeeded by H. B.’s friends, the Tories,--what must the poor artist do?

He must pine away and die, if he be not converted; he cannot always be

paying compliments; for caricature has a spice of Goethe’s Devil in it,

and is ‘der Geist, der stets verneint,’ the Spirit that is always

denying.

With one or two of the French writers and painters of caricatures, the

King tried the experiment of bribery; which succeeded occasionally in

buying off the enemy, and bringing him from the Republican to the Royal

camp; but when there, the deserter was never of any use. Figaro, when so

treated, grew fat and desponding, and lost all his sprightly _verve_;

and Nemesis became as gentle as a Quakeress. But these instances of

‘ratting’ were not many. Some few poets were bought over; but, among

men following the profession of the Press, a change of politics is an

infringement of the point of honour, and a man must _fight_ as well as

apostatise. A very curious table might be made, signalising the

difference of the moral standard between us and the French. Why is the

grossness and indelicacy, publicly permitted in England, unknown in

France, where private morality is certainly at a lower ebb? Why is the

point of private honour now more rigidly maintained among the French?

Why is it, as it should be, a moral disgrace for a Frenchman to go into

debt, and no disgrace for him to cheat his customer? Why is there more

honesty and less--more propriety and less?--and how are we to account

for the particular vices or virtues which belong to each nation in its

turn?

The above is the Reverend M. Macaire’s solitary exploit as a spiritual

swindler; as _Maître_ Macaire in the courts of law, as _avocat_,

_avoué_--in a humbler capacity even, as a prisoner at the bar, he

distinguishes himself greatly, as may be imagined. On one occasion we

find the learned gentleman humanely visiting an unfortunate _détenu_--no

other person, in fact, than his friend M. Bertrand, who has fallen into

some trouble, and is awaiting the sentence of the law. He begins--

‘Mon cher Bertrand, donne-moi cent écus, je te fais acquitter d’emblée.’

‘J’ai pas d’argent.’

‘Hé bien, donne-moi cent francs?’

‘Pas le sou.’

‘Tu n’as pas dix francs?’

‘Pas un liard.’

‘Alors donne moi tes bottes, je plaiderai la circonstance atténuante.’

The manner in which Maître Macaire soars from the _cent écus_ (a high

point already) to the sublime of the boots, is in the best comic style.

In another instance he pleads before a judge, and, mistaking his client,

pleads for defendant, instead of plaintiff. ‘The infamy of the

plaintiff’s character, my _luds_, renders his testimony on such a charge

as this wholly unavailing.’ ‘M. Macaire, M. Macaire,’ cries the

attorney, in a fright, ‘you are for the plaintiff!’ ‘This, my lords, is

what the defendant _will say_. This is the line of defence which the

opposite party intend to pursue; as if slanders like these could weigh

with an enlightened jury, or injure the spotless reputation of my

client!’ In this story and expedient M. Macaire has been indebted to the

English bar. If there be an occupation for the English satirist in the

exposing of the cant and knavery of the pretenders to religion, what

room is there for him to lash the infamies of the law? On this point the

French are babes in iniquity compared to us--a counsel prostituting

himself for money is a matter with us so stale, that it is hardly food

for satire: which, to be popular, must find some much more complicated

and interesting knavery whereon to exercise its skill.

M. Macaire is more skilful in love than in law, and appears once or

twice in a very amiable light while under the influence of the tender

passion. We find him at the head of one of those useful establishments

unknown in our country--a Bureau de Mariage: half a dozen of such places

are daily advertised in the journals: and ‘une veuve de trente ans ayant

une fortune de deux cent mille francs,’ or ‘une demoiselle de quinze

ans, jolie, d’une famille très distinguée, qui possède trente mille

livres de rentes,’--continually, in this kind-hearted way, are offering

themselves to the public; sometimes it is a gentleman, with a ‘physique

agréable,--des talens de société’--and a place under Government, who

makes a sacrifice of himself in a similar manner. In our little

historical gallery we find this philanthropic anti-Malthusian at the

head of an establishment of this kind, introducing a very meek

simple-looking bachelor to some distinguished ladies of his

_connaissance_. ‘Let me present you, sir, to Madame de St. Bertrand’ (it

is our old friend), ‘veuve de la grande armée, et Mdlle. Eloa de

Wormspire. Ces dames brûlent de l’envie de faire votre connoissance. Je

les ai invitées à dîner chez vous ce soir: vous nous menerez à l’opéra,

et nous ferons une petite parte d’écarté. Tenez-vous bien, M. Gobard!

ces dames out des projets sur vous!’

Happy Gobard! happy system, which can thus bring the pure and loving

together, and acts as the best ally of Hymen! The announcement of the

rank and titles of Madame de St. Bertrand--‘veuve de la grande

armée’--is very happy. ‘La grande armée’ has been a father to more

orphans, and a husband to more widows, than it ever made. Mistresses of

_cafés_, old governesses, keepers of boarding-houses, genteel beggars,

and ladies of lower rank still, have this favourite pedigree. They have

all had _malheurs_ (what kind it is needless to particularise), they are

all connected with the _grand homme_, and their fathers were all

colonels. This title exactly answers to the ‘clergyman’s daughter’ in

England--as, ‘A young lady, the daughter of a clergyman, is desirous to

teach,’ etc.; ‘A clergyman’s widow receives into her house a few

select,’ and so forth. ‘Appeal to the benevolent.--By a series of

unheard-of calamities, a young lady, daughter of a clergyman in the west

of England, has been plunged,’ etc. etc. The difference is curious, as

indicating the standard of respectability.

The male beggar of fashion is not so well known among us as in Paris,

where street-doors are open; six or eight families live in a house; and

the gentleman who earns his livelihood by this profession can make half

a dozen visits without the trouble of knocking from house to house, and

the pain of being observed by the whole street, while the footman is

examining him from the area. Some few may be seen in England about the

Inns of Court, where the locality is favourable (where, however, the

owners of the chambers are not proverbially soft of heart, so that the

harvest must be poor); but Paris is full of such adventurers,--fat,

smooth-tongued, and well-dressed, with gloves and gilt-headed canes, who

would be insulted almost by the offer of silver, and expect your gold as

their right. Among these, of course, our friend Robert plays his part;

and an excellent engraving represents him, snuff-box in hand, advancing

to an old gentleman, whom, by his poodle, his powdered head, and his

drivelling, stupid look, one knows to be a Carlist of the old _régime_.

‘I beg pardon,’ says Robert; ‘is it really yourself to whom I have the

honour of speaking?’--‘It is.’ ‘Do you take snuff?’--‘I thank you.’

‘Sir, I have had misfortunes--I want assistance. I am a Vendéan of

illustrious birth. You know the family of _Macairbec_--we are of Brest.

My grandfather served the King in his galleys; my father and I belong,

also, to the marine. Unfortunate suits at law have plunged us into

difficulties, and I do not hesitate to ask you for the succour of ten

francs.’--‘Sir, I never give to those I don’t know.’--‘Right, sir,

perfectly right. Perhaps you will have the kindness to _lend_ me ten

francs?’

The adventures of Doctor Macaire need not be described, because the

different degrees in quackery which are taken by that learned physician

are all well known in England, where we have the advantage of many

higher degrees in the science, which our neighbours know nothing about.

We have not Hahnemann, but we have his disciples; we have not Broussais,

but we have the College of Health; and surely a dose of Morison’s pills

is a sublimer discovery than a draught of hot water. We had St. John

Long, too,--where is his science?--and we are credibly informed that

some important cures have been effected by the inspired dignitaries of

‘the church’ in Newman Street--which, if it continue to practise, will

sadly interfere with the profits of the regular physicians, and where

the miracles of the Abbé Paris are about to be acted over again.

In speaking of M. Macaire and his adventures, we have managed so

entirely to convince ourselves of the reality of the personage, that we

have quite forgotten to speak of Messrs. Philipon and Daumier, who are,

the one the inventor, the other the designer, of the Macaire Picture

Gallery. As works of _esprit_, these drawings are not more remarkable

than they are as works of art, and we never recollect to have seen a

series of sketches possessing more extraordinary cleverness and variety.

The countenance and figure of Macaire and the dear stupid Bertrand are

preserved, of course, with great fidelity throughout; but the admirable

way in which each fresh character is conceived, the grotesque

appropriateness of Robert’s every successive attitude and gesticulation,

and the variety of Bertrand’s postures of invariable repose, the

exquisite fitness of all the other characters, who act their little part

and disappear from the scene, cannot be described on paper, or too

highly lauded. The figures are very carelessly drawn; but, if the reader

can understand us, all the attitudes and limbs are perfectly

_conceived_, and wonderfully natural and various. After pondering over

these drawings for some hours, as we have been while compiling this

notice of them, we have grown to believe that the personages are real,

and the scenes remain imprinted on the brain as if we had absolutely

been present at their acting. Perhaps the clever way in which the plates

are coloured, and the excellent effect which is put into each, may add

to this illusion. Now, in looking, for instance, at H. B.’s slim vapoury

figures, they have struck us as excellent _likenesses_ of men and women,

but no more: the bodies want spirit, action, and individuality. George

Cruikshank, as a humorist, has quite as much genius, but he does not

know the art of ‘effect’ so well as Monsieur Daumier; and, if we might

venture to give a word of advice to another humorous designer, whose

works are extensively circulated--the illustrator of _Pickwick_ and

_Nicholas Nickleby_,--it would be to study well these caricatures of

Monsieur Daumier; who, though he executes very carelessly, knows very

well what he would express, indicates perfectly the attitude and

identity of his figure, and is quite aware, beforehand, of the effect

which he intends to produce. The one we should fancy to be a practised

artist, taking his ease: the other, a young one, somewhat bewildered: a

very clever one, however, who, if he would think more, and exaggerate

less, would add not a little to his reputation.

Having pursued, all through these remarks, the comparison between

English art and French art, English and French humour, manners, and

morals, perhaps we should endeavour, also, to write an analytical essay

on English cant or humbug, as distinguished from French. It might be

shown that the latter was more picturesque and startling, the former

more substantial and positive. It has none of the poetic flights of the

French genius, but advances steadily, and gains more ground in the end

than its sprightlier compeer. But such a discussion would carry us

through the whole range of French and English history, and the reader

has probably read quite enough of the subject in this and the foregoing

pages.

We shall, therefore, say no more of French and English caricatures

generally, or of Mr. Macaire’s particular accomplishments and

adventures. They are far better understood by examining the original

pictures by which Philipon and Daumier have illustrated them, than by

translations first into print and afterwards into English. They form a

very curious and instructive commentary upon the present state of

society in Paris, and a hundred years hence, when the whole of this

struggling, noisy, busy, merry race shall have exchanged their pleasures

or occupations for a quiet coffin (and a tawdry lying epitaph) at

Montmartre, or Père la Chaise; when the follies here recorded shall have

been superseded by new ones, and the fools now so active shall have

given up the inheritance of the world to their children: the latter

will, at least, have the advantage of knowing, intimately and exactly,

the manners of life and being of their grandsires, and calling up, when

they so choose it, our ghosts from the grave, to live, love, quarrel,

swindle, suffer, and struggle on blindly as of yore. And when the amused

speculator shall have laughed sufficiently at the immensity of our

follies, and the paltriness of our aims, smiled at our exploded

superstitions, wondered how this man should he considered great, who is

now clean forgotten (as copious Guthrie before mentioned); how this

should have been thought a patriot who is but a knave spouting

commonplace; or how that should have been dubbed a philosopher who is

but a dull fool, blinking solemn, and pretending to see in the dark;

when he shall have examined all these at his leisure, smiling in a

pleasant contempt and good-humoured superiority, and thanking Heaven for

his increased lights, he will shut the book, and be a fool as his

fathers were before him.

It runs in the blood. Well hast thou said, O ragged Macaire,--‘Le jour

va passer, MAIS LES BADAUDS NE PASSERONT PAS.’

LITTLE POINSINET

About the year 1760, there lived, at Paris, a little fellow, who was the

darling of all the wags of his acquaintance. Nature seemed, in the

formation of this little man, to have amused herself, by giving loose to

half a hundred of her most comical caprices. He had some wit and

drollery of his own, which sometimes rendered his sallies very amusing;

but, where his friends laughed with him once, they laughed at him a

thousand times, for he had a fund of absurdity in himself that was more

pleasant than all the wit in the world. He was as proud as a peacock, as

wicked as an ape, and as silly as a goose. He did not possess one single

grain of common sense; but, in revenge, his pretensions were enormous,

his ignorance vast, and his credulity more extensive still. From his

youth upwards, he had read nothing but the new novels, and the verses in

the almanacs, which helped him not a little in making, what he called,

poetry of his own; for, of course, our little hero was a poet. All the

common usages of life, all the ways of the world, and all the customs of

society, seemed to be quite unknown to him; add to these good qualities,

a magnificent conceit, a cowardice inconceivable, and a face so

irresistibly comic, that every one who first beheld it was compelled to

burst out a-laughing, and you will have some notion of this strange

little gentleman. He was very proud of his voice, and uttered all his

sentences in the richest tragic tone. He was little better than a dwarf;

but he elevated his eyebrows, held up his neck, walked on the tips of

his toes, and gave himself the airs of a giant. He had a little pair of

bandy legs, which seemed much too short to support anything like a human

body; but, by the help of these crooked supporters, he thought he could

dance like a Grace; and, indeed, fancied all the graces possible were to

be found in his person. His goggle eyes were always rolling about

wildly, as if in correspondence with the disorder of his little brain;

and his countenance thus wore an expression of perpetual wonder. With

such happy natural gifts, he not only fell into all traps that were laid

for him, but seemed almost to go out of his way to seek them; although,

to be sure, his friends did not give him much trouble in that search,

for they prepared hoaxes for him incessantly.

One day the wags introduced him to a company of ladies, who, though not

countesses and princesses exactly, took, nevertheless, those titles upon

themselves for the nonce; and were all, for the same reason, violently

smitten with Master Poinsinet’s person. One of them, the lady of the

house, was especially tender; and, seating him by her side at supper, so

plied him with smiles, ogles, and champagne, that our little hero grew

crazed with ecstasy, and wild with love. In the midst of his happiness,

a cruel knock was heard below, accompanied by quick loud talking,

swearing, and shuffling of feet: you would have thought a regiment was

at the door. ‘Oh, heavens!’ cried the marchioness, starting up, and

giving to the hand of Poinsinet one parting squeeze; ‘fly--fly, my

Poinsinet: ‘tis the colonel--my husband!’ At this, each gentleman of the

party rose, and, drawing his rapier, vowed to cut his way through the

colonel and all his _mousquetaires_, or die, if need be, by the side of

Poinsinet.

The little fellow was obliged to lug out his sword too, and went

shuddering downstairs, heartily repenting of his passion for

marchionesses. When the party arrived in the street, they found, sure

enough, a dreadful company of _mousquetaires_, as they seemed, ready to

oppose their passage. Swords crossed,--torches blazed; and, with the

most dreadful shouts and imprecations, the contending parties rushed

upon one another; the friends of Poinsinet surrounding and supporting

that little warrior, as the French knights did King Francis at Pavia,

otherwise the poor fellow certainly would have fallen down in the gutter

from fright.

But the combat was suddenly interrupted; for the neighbours, who knew

nothing of the trick going on, and thought the brawl was real, had been

screaming with all their might for the police, who began about this time

to arrive. Directly they appeared, friends and enemies of Poinsinet at

once took to their heels; and, in _this_ part of the transaction, at

least, our hero himself showed that he was equal to the longest-legged

grenadier that ever ran away.

When, at last, those little bandy legs of his had borne him safely to

his lodgings, all Poinsinet’s friends crowded round him, to congratulate

him on his escape and his valour.

‘Egad, how he pinked that great red-haired fellow!’ said one.

‘No; did I?’ said Poinsinet.

‘Did you? Psha! don’t try to play the modest, and humbug _us_; you know

you did. I suppose you will say, next, that you were not for three

minutes point to point with Cartentierce himself, the most dreadful

swordsman of the army.’

‘Why, you see,’ says Poinsinet, quite delighted, ‘it was so dark that I

did not know with whom I was engaged; although, _corbleu_, I _did for_

one or two of the fellows.’ And after a little more of such

conversation, during which he was fully persuaded that he had done for a

dozen of the enemy at least, Poinsinet went to bed, his little person

trembling with fright and pleasure; and he fell asleep, and dreamed of

rescuing ladies, and destroying monsters, like a second Amadis de Gaul.

When he awoke in the morning, he found a party of his friends in his

room: one was examining his coat and waistcoat; another was casting many

curious glances at his inexpressibles. ‘Look here!’ said this gentleman,

holding up the garment to the light; ‘_one_--two--three gashes! I am

hanged if the cowards did not aim at Poinsinet’s legs! There are four

holes in the sword arm of his coat, and seven have gone right through

coat and waistcoat. Good heaven! Poinsinet, have you had a surgeon to

your wounds?’

‘Wounds!’ said the little man, springing up, ‘I don’t know--that is, I

hope--that is--O Lord! O Lord! I hope I’m not wounded!’ and, after a

proper examination, he discovered he was not.

‘Thank heaven! thank heaven!’ said one of the wags (who, indeed, during

the slumbers of Poinsinet had been occupied in making these very holes

through the garments of that individual), ‘if you have escaped, it is by

a miracle. Alas! alas! all your enemies have not been so lucky.’

‘How! is anybody wounded?’ said Poinsinet.

‘My dearest friend, prepare yourself; that unhappy man who came to

revenge his menaced honour--that gallant officer--that injured husband,

Colonel Count de Cartentierce----’

‘Well?’

‘Is NO MORE! he died this morning, pierced through with nineteen wounds

from your hand, and calling upon his country to revenge his murder.’

When this awful sentence was pronounced, all the auditory gave a

pathetic and simultaneous sob; and as for Poinsinet, he sank back on his

bed with a howl of terror, which would have melted a Visigoth to

tears,--or to laughter. As soon as his terror and remorse had, in some

degree, subsided, his comrades spoke to him of the necessity of making

his escape; and huddling on his clothes, and bidding them all a tender

adieu, he set off, incontinently, without his breakfast, for England,

America, or Russia, not knowing exactly which.

One of his companions agreed to accompany him on a part of this

journey,--that is, as far as the barrier of St. Denis, which is, as

everybody knows, on the highroad to Dover; and there, being tolerably

secure, they entered a tavern for breakfast; which meal, the last that

he ever was to take, perhaps, in his native city, Poinsinet was just

about to discuss, when, behold! a gentleman entered the apartment where

Poinsinet and his friend were seated, and, drawing from his pocket a

paper, with ‘AU NOM DU ROY’ flourished on the top, read from it, or

rather from Poinsinet’s own figure, his exact _signalement_, laid his

hand on his shoulder, and arrested him in the name of the King, and of

the provost-marshal of Paris. ‘I arrest you, sir,’ said he gravely,

‘with regret; you have slain, with seventeen wounds, in single combat,

Colonel Count de Cartentierce, one of his Majesty’s household; and, as

his murderer, you full under the immediate authority of the

provost-marshal, and die without trial or benefit of clergy.’

You may fancy how the poor little man’s appetite fell when he heard this

speech. ‘In the provost-marshal’s hands?’ said his friend: ‘then it _is_

all over, indeed! When does my poor friend suffer, sir?’

‘At half-past six o’clock the day after to-morrow,’ said the officer,

sitting down, and helping himself to wine. ‘But stop,’ said he suddenly;

‘sure I can’t mistake? Yes--no--yes, it is. My dear friend, my dear

Durand! don’t you recollect your old schoolfellow, Antoine?’ And

herewith the officer flung himself into the arms of Durand, Poinsinet’s

comrade, and they performed a most affecting scene of friendship.

‘This may be of some service to you,’ whispered Durand to Poinsinet;

and, after some further parley, he asked the officer when he was bound

to deliver up his prisoner; and, hearing that he was not called upon to

appear at the Marshalsea before six o’clock at night, Monsieur Durand

prevailed upon Monsieur Antoine to wait until that hour, and in the

meantime to allow his prisoner to walk about the town in his company.

This request was, with a little difficulty, granted; and poor Poinsinet

begged to be carried to the houses of his various friends, and bid them

farewell. Some were aware of the trick that had been played upon him;

others were not; but the poor little man’s credulity was so great, that

it was impossible to undeceive him; and he went from house to house

bewailing his fate, and followed by the complaisant marshal’s officer.

The news of his death he received with much more meekness than could

have been expected; but what he could not reconcile to himself was, the

idea of dissection afterwards. ‘What can they want with me?’ cried the

poor wretch, in an unusual fit of candour. ‘I am very small and ugly; it

would be different if I were a tall, fine-looking fellow.’ But he was

given to understand that beauty made very little difference to the

surgeons, who, on the contrary, would, on certain occasions, prefer a

deformed man to a handsome one; for science was much advanced by the

study of such monstrosities. With this reason Poinsinet was obliged to

be content; and so paid his rounds of visits, and repeated his dismal

adieus.

The officer of the provost-marshal, however amusing Poinsinet’s woes

might have been, began, by this time, to grow very weary of them, and

gave him more than one opportunity to escape. He would stop at

shop-windows, loiter round comers, and look up in the sky, but all in

vain: Poinsinet would not escape, do what the other would. At length,

luckily, about dinner-time, the officer met one of Poinsinet’s friends

and his own: and the three agreed to dine at a tavern, as they had

breakfasted; and there the officer, who vowed that he had been up for

five weeks incessantly, fell suddenly asleep in the profoundest fatigue;

and Poinsinet was persuaded, after much hesitation on his part, to take

leave of him.

And now, this danger overcome, another was to be avoided. Beyond a doubt

the police were after him, and how was he to avoid them? He must be

disguised, of course; and one of his friends, a tall gaunt lawyer’s

clerk, agreed to provide him with habits.

So little Poinsinet dressed himself out in the clerk’s dingy black suit,

of which the knee-breeches hung down to his heels, and the waist of the

coat reached to the calves of his legs; and, furthermore, he blacked his

eyebrows, and wore a huge black periwig, in which his friend vowed that

no one could recognise him. But the most painful incident, with regard

to the periwig, was, that Poinsinet, whose solitary beauty--if beauty it

might be called--was a head of copious, curling yellow hair, was

compelled to snip off every one of his golden locks, and to rub the

bristles with a black dye; ‘for if your wig were to come off,’ said the

lawyer, ‘and your fair hair to tumble over your shoulders, every man

would know, or at least suspect you.’ So off the locks were cut, and in

his black suit and periwig little Poinsinet went abroad.

His friends had their cue; and when he appeared amongst them, not one

seemed to know him. He was taken into companies where his character was

discussed before him, and his wonderful escape spoken of. At last he was

introduced to the very officer of the provost-marshal who had taken him

into custody, and who told him that he had been dismissed the provost’s

service, in consequence of the escape of the prisoner. Now, for the

first time, poor Poinsinet thought himself tolerably safe, and blessed

his kind friends who had procured for him such a complete disguise. How

this affair ended I know not:--whether some new lie was coined to

account for his release, or whether he was simply told that he had been

hoaxed: it mattered little; for the little man was quite as ready to be

hoaxed the next day.

[Illustration: POINSINET IN DISGUISE]

Poinsinet was one day invited to dine with one of the servants of the

Tuileries; and, before his arrival, a person in company had been

decorated with a knot of lace and a gold key, such as chamberlains wear;

he was introduced to Poinsinet as the Count de Truchses, chamberlain to

the King of Prussia. After dinner the conversation fell upon the Count’s

visit to Paris; when his Excellency, with a mysterious air, vowed that

he had only come for pleasure. ‘It is mighty well,’ said a third person,

‘and, of course, we can’t cross-question your lordship too closely;’

but at the same time it was hinted to Poinsinet that a person of such

consequence did not travel for _nothing_, with which opinion Poinsinet

solemnly agreed; and indeed it was borne out by a subsequent declaration

of the Count, who condescended, at last, to tell the company, in

confidence, that he _had_ a mission, and a most important one--to find,

namely, among the literary men of France, a governor for the Prince

Royal of Prussia. The company seemed astonished that the King had not

made choice of Voltaire or D’Alembert, and mentioned a dozen other

distinguished men who might be competent to this important duty; but the

Count, as may be imagined, found objections to every one of them; and,

at last, one of the guests said, that, if his Prussian Majesty was not

particular as to age, he knew a person more fitted for the place than

any other who could be found,--his honourable friend, M. Poinsinet, was

the individual to whom he alluded.

‘Good heavens!’ cried the Count, ‘is it possible that the celebrated

Poinsinet would take such a place? I would give the world to see him!’

And you may fancy how Poinsinet simpered and blushed when the

introduction immediately took place.

The Count protested to him that the King would be charmed to know him;

and added, that one of his operas (for it must be told that our little

friend was a vaudeville-maker by trade) had been acted seven-and-twenty

times at the theatre at Potsdam. His Excellency then detailed to him all

the honours and privileges which the governor of the Prince Royal might

expect; and all the guests encouraged the little man’s vanity, by asking

him for his protection and favour. In a short time our hero grew so

inflated with pride and vanity, that he was for patronising the

chamberlain himself, who proceeded to inform him that he was furnished

with all the necessary powers by his sovereign, who had specially

enjoined him to confer upon the future governor of his son the Royal

order of the Black Eagle.

Poinsinet, delighted, was ordered to kneel down; and the Count produced

a large yellow riband, which he hung over his shoulder, and which was,

he declared, the grand cordon of the order. You must fancy Poinsinet’s

face, and excessive delight at this; for as for describing them, nobody

can. For four-and-twenty hours the happy chevalier paraded through Paris

with this flaring yellow riband; and he was not undeceived until his

friends had another trick in store for him.

He dined one day in the company of a man who understood a little of the

noble art of conjuring, and performed some clever tricks on the cards.

Poinsinet’s organ of wonder was enormous; he looked on with the gravity

and awe of a child, and thought the man’s tricks sheer miracles. It

wanted no more to set his companions to work.

‘Who is this wonderful man?’ said he to his neighbour.

‘Why,’ said the other, mysteriously, ‘one hardly knows who he is; or, at

least, one does not like to say to such an indiscreet fellow as you

are.’ Poinsinet at once swore to be secret. ‘Well, then,’ said his

friend, ‘you will hear that man--that wonderful man--called by a name

which is not his: his real name is Acosta; he is a Portuguese Jew, a

Rosicrucian, and Cabalist of the first order, and compelled to leave

Lisbon for fear of the Inquisition. He performs here, as you see, some

extraordinary things, occasionally; but the master of the house, who

loves him excessively, would not for the world that his name should be

made public.’

‘Ah, bah!’ said Poinsinet, who affected the _bel esprit_; ‘you don’t

mean to say that you believe in magic, and cabalas, and such trash?’

‘Do I not? You shall judge for yourself.’ And, accordingly, Poinsinet

was presented to the magician, who pretended to take a vast liking for

him, and declared that he saw in him certain marks which would

infallibly lead him to great eminence in the magic art, if he chose to

study it.

Dinner was served, and Poinsinet placed by the side of the

miracle-worker, who became very confidential with him, and promised

him--ay, before dinner was over--a remarkable instance of his power.

Nobody, on this occasion, ventured to cut a single joke against poor

Poinsinet; nor could he fancy that any trick was intended against him,

for the demeanour of the society towards him was perfectly grave and

respectful, and the conversation serious. On a sudden, however, somebody

exclaimed, ‘Where is Poinsinet? Did any one see him leave the room?’

All the company exclaimed how singular the disappearance was; and

Poinsinet himself, growing alarmed, turned round to his neighbour, and

was about to explain.

‘Hush!’ said the magician, in a whisper; ‘I told you that you should see

what I could do. _I have made you invisible_; be quiet, and you shall

see some more tricks that I shall play with these fellows.’

Poinsinet remained then silent, and listened to his neighbours, who

agreed, at last, that he was a quiet, orderly personage, and had left

the table early, being unwilling to drink too much. Presently they

ceased to talk about him, and resumed their conversation upon other

matters.

At first it was very quiet and grave, but the master of the house

brought back the talk to the subject of Poinsinet, and uttered all sorts

of abuse concerning him. He begged the gentleman, who had introduced

such a little scamp into his house, to bring him thither no more;

whereupon the other took up, warmly, Poinsinet’s defence; declared that

he was a man of the greatest merit, frequenting the best society, and

remarkable for his talents as well as his virtues.

‘Ah!’ said Poinsinet to the magician, quite charmed at what he heard,

‘however shall I thank you, my dear sir, for thus showing me who my true

friends are?’

The magician promised him still further favours in prospect; and told

him to look out now, for he was about to throw all the company into a

temporary fit of madness, which, no doubt, would be very amusing.

In consequence, all the company, who had heard every syllable of the

conversation, began to perform the most extraordinary antics, much to

the delight of Poinsinet. One asked a nonsensical question, and the

other delivered an answer not at all to the purpose. If a man asked for

a drink they poured him out a pepper-box or a napkin: they took a pinch

of snuff, and swore it was excellent wine: and vowed that the bread was

the most delicious mutton that ever was tasted. The little man was

delighted.

‘Ah!’ said he, ‘these fellows are prettily punished for their rascally

backbiting of me!’

‘Gentlemen,’ said the host, ‘I shall now give you some celebrated

champagne,’ and he poured out to each a glass of water.

‘Good heavens!’ said one, spitting it out, with the most horrible

grimace, ‘where did you get this detestable claret?’

‘Ah, faugh!’ said a second, ‘I never tasted such vile corked Burgundy in

all my days!’ and he threw the glass of water into Poinsinet’s face, as

did half a dozen of the other guests, drenching the poor wretch to the

skin. To complete this pleasant illusion, two of the guests fell to

boxing across Poinsinet, who received a number of the blows, and

received them with the patience of a fakir, feeling himself more

flattered by the precious privilege of beholding this scene invisible,

than hurt by the blows and buffets which the mad company bestowed upon

him.

The fame of this adventure spread quickly over Paris, and all the world

longed to have at their houses the representation of _Poinsinet the

Invisible_. The servants and the whole company used to be put up to the

trick; and Poinsinet, who believed in his invisibility as much as he did

in his existence, went about with his friend and protector the magician.

People, of course, never pretended to see him, and would very often not

talk of him at all for some time, but hold sober conversation about

anything else in the world. When dinner was served, of course there was

no cover laid for Poinsinet, who carried about a little stool, on which

he sate by the side of the magician, and always ate off his plate.

Everybody was astonished at the magician’s appetite and at the quantity

of wine he drank; as for little Poinsinet, he never once suspected any

trick, and had such a confidence in his magician, that, I do believe, if

the latter had told him to fling himself out of window, he would have

done so, without the least trepidation.

Among other mystifications in which the Portuguese enchanter plunged

him, was one which used to afford always a good deal of amusement. He

informed Poinsinet, with great mystery, that _he was not himself_; he

was not, that is to say, that ugly deformed little monster, called

Poinsinet; but that his birth was most illustrious, and his real name

_Polycarte_. He was, in fact, the son of a celebrated magician; but

other magicians, enemies of his father, had changed him in his cradle,

altering his features into their present hideous shape, in order that a

silly old fellow, called Poinsinet, might take him to be his own son,

which little monster the magician had likewise spirited away.

The poor wretch was sadly cast down at this; for he tried to fancy that

his person was agreeable to the ladies, of whom he was one of the

warmest little admirers possible; and to console him somewhat, the

magician told him that his real shape was exquisitely beautiful, and as

soon as he should appear in it, all the beauties in Paris would be at

his feet. But how to regain it? ‘Oh, for one minute of that beauty!’

cried the little man; ‘what would he not give to appear under that

enchanting form!’ The magician here-upon waved his stick over his head,

pronounced some awful magical words, and twisted him round three times;

at the third twist, the men in company seemed struck with astonishment

and envy, the ladies clasped their hands, and some of them kissed his.

Everybody declared his beauty to be supernatural.

Poinsinet, enchanted, rushed to a glass. ‘Fool!’ said the magician; ‘do

you suppose that _you_ can see the change? My power to render you

invisible, beautiful, or ten times more hideous even than you are,

extends only to others, not to you. You may look a thousand times in the

glass, and you will only see those deformed limbs and disgusting

features with which devilish malice has disguised you.’ Poor little

Poinsinet looked, and came back in tears. ‘But,’ resumed the

magician,--‘ha, ha, ha!--_I_ know _a_ way in which to disappoint the

machinations of these fiendish magi.’

‘Oh, my benefactor!--my great master!--for heaven’s sake tell it!’

gasped Poinsinet.

‘Look you--it is this. A prey to enchantment and demoniac art all your

life long, you have lived until your present age perfectly satisfied;

nay, absolutely vain of a person the most singularly hideous that ever

walked the earth!’

‘_Is_ it?’ whispered Poinsinet. ‘Indeed, and indeed, I didn’t think it

so bad!’

‘He acknowledges it! he acknowledges it!’ roared the magician. ‘Wretch,

dotard, owl, mole, miserable buzzard! I have no reason to tell thee now

that thy form is monstrous, that children cry, that cowards turn pale,

that teeming matrons shudder to behold it. It is not thy fault that thou

art thus ungainly: but wherefore so blind? wherefore so conceited of

thyself? I tell thee, Poinsinet, that over every fresh instance of thy

vanity the hostile enchanters rejoice and triumph. As long as thou art

blindly satisfied with thyself; as long as thou pretendest, in thy

present odious shape, to win the love of aught above a negress; nay,

further still, until thou hast learned to regard that face, as others

do, with the most intolerable horror and disgust, to abuse it when thou

seest it, to despise it, in short, and treat that miserable disguise in

which the enchanters have wrapped thee with the strongest hatred and

scorn, so long art thou destined to wear it.’

Such speeches as these, continually repeated, caused Poinsinet to be

fully convinced of his ugliness; he used to go about in companies, and

take every opportunity of inveighing against himself; he made verses and

epigrams against himself; he talked about ‘that dwarf, Poinsinet;’ ‘that

buffoon, Poinsinet;’ ‘that conceited, hump-backed Poinsinet;’ and he

would spend hours before the glass, abusing his own face as he saw it

reflected there, and vowing that he grew handsomer at every fresh

epithet that he uttered.

Of course the wags, from time to time, used to give him every possible

encouragement, and declared that, since this exercise, his person was

amazingly improved. The ladies, too, began to be so excessively fond of

him, that the little fellow was obliged to caution them at last--for the

good, as he said, of society; he recommended them to draw lots, for he

could not gratify them all; but promised when his metamorphosis was

complete, that the one chosen should become the happy Mrs. Poinsinet;

or, to speak more correctly, Mrs. Polycarte.

I am sorry to say, however, that, on the score of gallantry, Poinsinet

was never quite convinced of the hideousness of his appearance. He had a

number of adventures, accordingly, with the ladies, but, strange to say,

the husbands or fathers were always interrupting him. On one occasion he

was made to pass the night in a slipper-bath full of water; where,

although he had all his clothes on, he declared that he nearly caught

his death of cold. Another night, in revenge, the poor fellow

‘----dans le simple appareil

D’une beauté, qu’on vient d’arracher au sommeil,’

spent a number of hours contemplating the beauty of the moon on the

tiles. These adventures are pretty numerous in the memoirs of M.

Poinsinet; but the fact is, that people in France were a great deal more

philosophical in those days than the English are now, so that

Poinsinet’s loves must be passed over, as not being to our taste. His

magician was a great diver, and told Poinsinet the most wonderful tales

of his two minutes’ absence under water. These two minutes, he said,

lasted through a year, at least, which he spent in the company of a

naiad, more beautiful than Venus, in a palace more splendid than even

Versailles. Fired by the description, Poinsinet used to dip, and dip,

but he never was known to make any mermaid acquaintances, although he

fully believed that one day he should find such.

The invisible joke was brought to an end by Poinsinet’s too great

reliance on it; for being, as we have said, of a very tender and

sanguine disposition, he one day fell in love with a lady in whose

company he dined, and whom he actually proposed to embrace; but the fair

lady, in the hurry of the moment, forgot to act up to the joke; and

instead of receiving Poinsinet’s salute with calmness, grew indignant,

called him an impudent little scoundrel, and lent him a sound box on the

ear. With this slap the invisibility of Poinsinet disappeared, the

gnomes and genii left him, and he settled down into common life again,

and was hoaxed only by vulgar means.

A vast number of pages might be filled with narratives of the tricks

that were played upon him; but they resemble each other a good deal, as

may be imagined, and the chief point remarkable about them is the

wondrous faith of Poinsinet. After being introduced to the Prussian

ambassador at the Tuileries, he was presented to the Turkish envoy at

the Place Vendôme, who received him in state, surrounded by the officers

of his establishment, all dressed in the smartest dresses that the

wardrobe of the Opéra Comique could furnish.

As the greatest honour that could be done to him, Poinsinet was invited

to eat, and a tray was produced, on which was a delicate dish prepared

in the Turkish manner. This consisted of a reasonable quantity of

mustard, salt, cinnamon and ginger, nutmegs and cloves, with a couple of

tablespoonfuls of cayenne pepper, to give the whole a flavour; and

Poinsinet’s countenance may be imagined when he introduced into his

mouth a quantity of this exquisite compound.

‘The best of the joke was,’ says the author who records so many of the

pitiless tricks practised upon poor Poinsinet, ‘that the little man used

to laugh at them afterwards himself with perfect good-humour; and lived

in the daily hope that, from being the sufferer, he should become the

agent in these hoaxes, and do to others as he had been done by.’

Passing, therefore, one day, on the Pont Neuf, with a friend, who had

been one of the greatest performers, the latter said to him, ‘Poinsinet,

my good fellow, thou hast suffered enough, and thy sufferings have made

thee so wise and cunning, that thou art worthy of entering among the

initiated, and hoaxing in thy turn.’ Poinsinet was charmed; he asked

when he should be initiated, and how? It was told him that a moment

would suffice, and that the ceremony might be performed on the spot. At

this news, and according to order, Poinsinet flung himself straightway

on his knees in the kennel; and the other, drawing his sword, solemnly

initiated him into the sacred order of jokers. From that day the little

man believed himself received into the society; and to this having

brought him, let us bid him a respectful adieu.

[Illustration]

THE DEVIL’S WAGER

It was the hour of the night when there be none stirring save churchyard

ghosts--when all doors are closed except the gates of graves, and all

eyes shut but the eyes of wicked men.

When there is no sound on the earth except the ticking of the

grasshopper, or the croaking of obscene frogs in the poole.

And no light except that of the blinking starres, and the wicked and

devilish wills-o’-the-wisp, as they gambol among the marshes, and lead

good men astraye.

When there is nothing moving in heaven except the owle, as he flappeth

along lazily; or the magician, as he rides on his infernal broomsticke,

whistling through the aire like the arrowes of a Yorkshire archere.

It was at this hour (namely, at twelve o’clock of the night) that two

beings went winging through the black clouds, and holding converse with

each other.

Now the first was Mercurius, the messenger, not of gods (as the heathens

feigned), but of dæmons; and the second, with whom he held company, was

the soul of Sir Roger de Rollo, the brave knight. Sir Roger was Count of

Chauchigny, in Champagne; Seigneur of Santerre, Villacerf and _aultre

lieux_. But the great die as well as the humble; and nothing remained of

brave Roger now but his coffin and his deathless soul.

And Mercurius, in order to keep fast the soul, his companion, had bound

him round the neck with his tail; which, when the soul was stubborn, he

would draw so tight as to strangle him well-nigh, sticking into him the

barbed point thereof; whereat the poor soul, Sir Rollo, would groan and

roar lustily.

Now they two had come together from the gates of purgatorie, being bound

to those regions of fire and flame where poor sinners fry and roast _in

sæcula sæculorum_.

‘It is hard,’ said the poor Sir Rollo, as they went gliding through the

clouds, ‘that I should thus be condemned for ever, and all for want of a

single ave.’

‘How, Sir Soul?’ said the dæmon. ‘You were on earth so wicked, that not

one, or a million of aves, could suffice to keep from hell-flame a

creature like thee; but cheer up and be merry; thou wilt be but a

subject of our lord the Devil, as I am; and, perhaps, thou wilt be

advanced to posts of honour, as am I also:’ and to show his authoritie,

he lashed with his tail the ribbes of the wretched Rollo.

‘Nevertheless, sinner as I am, one more ave would have saved me; for my

sister, who was Abbess of St. Mary of Chauchigny, did so prevail, by her

prayer and good works, for my lost and wretched soul, that every day I

felt the pains of purgatory decrease: the pitchforks which, on my first

entry, had never ceased to vex and torment my poor carcass, were now not

applied above once a week; the roasting had ceased, the boiling had

discontinued; only a certain warmth was kept up, to remind me of my

situation.’

‘A gentle stewe,’ said the dæmon.

‘Yea, truly, I was but in a stew, and all from the effects of the

prayers of my blessed sister. But yesterday, he who watched me in

purgatory told me, that yet another prayer from my sister, and my bonds

should be unloosed, and I, who am now a devil, should have been a

blessed angel.’

‘And the other ave?’ said the dæmon.

‘She died, sir--my sister died--death choked her in the middle of the

prayer.’ And hereat the wretched spirit began to weepe and whine

piteously; his salt tears falling over his beard, and scalding the tail

of Mercurius the devil.

‘It is, in truth, a hard case,’ said the dæmon; ‘but I know of no remedy

save patience, and for that you will have an excellent opportunity in

your lodgings below.’

‘But I have relations,’ said the earl; ‘my kinsman Randal, who has

inherited my lands, will he not say a prayer for his uncle?’

‘Thou didst hate and oppress him when living.’

‘It is true; but an ave is not much; his sister, my niece, Matilda----’

‘You shut her in a convent, and hanged her lover.’

‘Had I not reason? besides, has she not others?’

‘A dozen, without doubt.’

‘And my brother, the prior?’

‘A liege subject of my lord the Devil; he never opens his mouth except

to utter an oath, or to swallow a cup of wine.’

‘And yet, if but one of these would but say an ave for me, I should be

saved.’

‘Aves with them are raræ aves,’ replied Mercurius, wagging his tail

right waggishly; ‘and, what is more, I will lay thee any wager that not

one of these will say a prayer to save thee.’

‘I would wager willingly,’ responded he of Chauchigny; ‘but what has a

poor soul like me to stake?’

‘Every evening, after the day’s roasting, my lord Satan giveth a cup of

cold water to his servants; I will bet thee thy water for a year, that

none of the three will pray for thee.’

‘Done!’ said Rollo.

‘Done!’ said the dæmon; ‘and here, if I mistake not, is thy castle of

Chauchigny.’

Indeed, it was true. The soul, on looking down, perceived the tall

towers, the courts, the stables, and the fair gardens of the castle.

Although it was past midnight, there was a blaze of light in the

banqueting-hall, and a lamp burning in the open window of the Lady

Matilda.

‘With whom shall we begin?’ said the dæmon: ‘with the baron or the

lady?’

‘With the lady, if you will.’

‘Be it so, her window is open, let us enter.’

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

* * * * *

The young lady’s eyes were fixed so intently on a little clock, that it

was no wonder that she did not perceive the entrance of her two

visitors. Her fair cheek rested on her white arm, and her white arm on

the cushion of a great chair, in which she sat pleasantly supported by

sweet thoughts and swan’s down; a lute was at her side, and a book of

prayers lay under the table (for piety is always modest). Like the

amorous Alexander, she sighed and looked (at the clock)--and sighed for

ten minutes or more, when she softly breathed the word ‘Edward!’

At this the soul of the baron was wroth. ‘The jade is at her old

pranks,’ said he to the devil; and then addressing Matilda: ‘I pray

thee, sweet niece, turn thy thoughts for a moment from that villainous

page, Edward, and give them to thine affectionate uncle.’

When she heard the voice, and saw the awful apparition of her uncle (for

a year’s sojourn in purgatory had not increased the comeliness of his

appearance), she started, screamed, and of course fainted.

But the devil Mercurius soon restored her to herself. ‘What’s o’clock?’

said she, as soon as she had recovered from her fit: ‘is he come?’

‘Not thy lover, Maude, but thine uncle--that is, his soul. For the love

of heaven, listen to me: I have been frying in purgatory for a year

past, and should have been in heaven but for the want of a single ave.’

‘I will say it for thee to-morrow, uncle.’

‘To-night, or never.’

‘Well, to-night be it:’ and she requested the devil Mercurius to give

her the prayer-book from under the table; but he had no sooner touched

the holy book than he dropped it with a shriek and a yell. ‘It was

hotter,’ he said, ‘than his master Sir Lucifer’s own particular

pitchfork.’ And the lady was forced to begin her ave without the aid of

her missal.

At the commencement of her devotions the dæmon retired, and carried with

him the anxious soul of poor Sir Roger de Rollo.

The lady knelt down--she sighed deeply; she looked again at the clock,

and began--

‘Ave Maria----’

When a lute was heard under the window, and a sweet voice singing--

‘Hark!’ said Matilda.

‘Now the toils of day are over,

And the sun hath sunk to rest,

Seeking, like a fiery lover,

The bosom of the blushing West--

The faithful night keeps watch and ward,

Raising the moon, her silver shield,

And summoning the stars to guard

The slumbers of my fair Mathilde!’

‘For mercy’s sake!’ said Sir Rollo, ‘the ave first, and next the song.’

So Matilda again dutifully betook her to her devotions, and began--

‘Ave Maria, gratia plena!’ but the music began again, and the prayer

ceased of course.

‘The faithful night! Now all things lie

Hid by her mantle dark and dim,

In pious hope I hither hie,

And humbly chaunt mine ev’ning hymn.

Thou art my prayer, my saint, my shrine!

(For never holy pilgrim kneel’d,

Or wept at feet more pure than thine)

My virgin love, my sweet Mathilde!’

‘Virgin love!’ said the baron. ‘Upon my soul, this is too bad!’ and he

thought of the lady’s lover whom he had caused to be hanged.

But _she_ only thought of him who stood singing at her window.

‘Niece Matilda!’ cried Sir Roger agonisedly, ‘wilt thou listen to the

lies of an impudent page, whilst thine uncle is waiting but a dozen

words to make him happy?’

At this Matilda grew angry: ‘Edward is neither impudent nor a liar, Sir

Uncle, and I will listen to the end of the song.’

‘Come away,’ said Mercurius; ‘he hath yet got wield, field, sealed,

congealed, and a dozen other rhymes beside; and after the song will come

the supper.’

So the poor soul was obliged to go; while the lady listened, and the

page sang away till morning.

* * * * *

‘My virtues have been my ruin,’ said poor Sir Rollo, as he and Mercurius

slunk silently out of the window. ‘Had I hanged that knave Edward, as I

did the page his predecessor, my niece would have sung mine ave, and I

should have been by this time an angel in heaven.’

‘He is reserved for wiser purposes,’ responded the devil: ‘he will

assassinate your successor, the lady Mathilde’s brother; and, in

consequence, will be hanged. In the love of the lady he will be

succeeded by a gardener, who will be replaced by a monk, who will give

way to an ostler, who will be deposed by a Jew pedlar, who shall,

finally, yield to a noble earl, the future husband of the fair Mathilde.

So that, you see, instead of having one poor soul a-frying, we may now

look forward to a goodly harvest for our lord the Devil.’

The soul of the baron began to think that his companion knew too much

for one who would make fair bets; but there was no help for it; he would

not, and could not, cry off; and he prayed inwardly that the brother

might be found more pious than the sister.

But there seemed little chance of this. As they crossed the court,

lackeys, with smoking dishes and full jugs, passed and repassed

continually, although it was long past midnight. On entering the hall,

they found Sir Randal at the head of a vast table, surrounded by a

fiercer and more motley collection of individuals than had congregated

there even in the time of Sir Rollo. The lord of the castle had

signified that ‘it was his royal pleasure to be drunk,’ and the

gentlemen of his train had obsequiously followed their master. Mercurius

was delighted with the scene, and relaxed his usually rigid countenance

into a bland and benevolent smile, which became him wonderfully.

The entrance of Sir Roger, who had been dead about a year, and a person

with hoofs, horns, and a tail, rather disturbed the hilarity of the

company. Sir Randal dropped his cup of wine; and Father Peter, the

confessor, incontinently paused in the midst of a profane song, with

which he was amusing the society.

‘Holy Mother!’ cried he, ‘it is Sir Roger.’

‘Alive!’ screamed Sir Randal.

‘No, my lord,’ Mercurius said; ‘Sir Roger is dead, but cometh on a

matter of business; and I have the honour to act as his counsellor and

attendant.’

‘Nephew,’ said Sir Roger, ‘the dæmon saith justly; I come on a trifling

affair, in which thy service is essential.’

‘I will do anything, uncle, in my power.’

‘Thou canst give me life, if thou wilt.’ But Sir Randal looked very

blank at this proposition. ‘I mean life spiritual, Randal,’ said Sir

Roger; and thereupon he explained to him the nature of the wager.

Whilst he was telling his story, his companion Mercurius was playing

all sorts of antics in the hall; and, by his wit and fun, became so

popular with this godless crew, that they lost all the fear which his

first appearance had given them. The friar was wonderfully taken with

him, and used his utmost eloquence and endeavours to convert the devil;

the knights stopped drinking to listen to the argument; the men-at-arms

forbore brawling; and the wicked little pages crowded round the two

strange disputants, to hear their edifying discourse. The ghostly man,

however, had little chance in the controversy, and certainly little

learning to carry it on. Sir Randal interrupted him. ‘Father Peter,’

said he, ‘our kinsman is condemned for ever, for want of a single ave:

wilt thou say it for him?’ ‘Willingly, my lord,’ said the monk, ‘with my

book;’ and accordingly he produced his missal to read, without which aid

it appeared that the holy father could not manage the desired prayer.

But the crafty Mercurius had, by his devilish art, inserted a song in

the place of the ave, so that Father Peter, instead of chaunting an

hymn, sang the following irreverent ditty:--

‘Some love the matin-chimes, which tell

The hour of prayer to sinner:

But better far’s the midday bell,

Which speaks the hour of dinner;

For when I see a smoking fish,

Or capon drown’d in gravy,

Or noble haunch on silver dish,

Full glad I sing mine ave.

My pulpit is an alehouse bench,

Whereon I sit so jolly;

A smiling rosy country wench

My saint and patron holy.

I kiss her cheek so red and sleek,

I press her ringlets wavy,

And in her willing ear I speak

A most religious ave.

And if I’m blind, yet Heaven is kind,

And holy saints forgiving;

For sure he leads a right good life

Who thus admires good living.

Above, they say, our flesh is air,

Our blood celestial ichor:

Oh, grant! ‘mid all the changes there,

They may not change our liquor!’

[Illustration: THE CHAPLAIN PUZZLED]

And with this pious wish the holy confessor tumbled under the table in

an agony of devout drunkenness; whilst the knights, the men-at-arms, and

the wicked little pages rang out the last verse with a most melodious

and emphatic glee. ‘I am sorry, fair uncle,’ hiccupped Sir Randal,

‘that, in the matter of the ave, we could not oblige thee in a more

orthodox manner; but the holy father has failed, and there is not

another man in the hall who hath an idea of a prayer.’

‘It is my own fault,’ said Sir Rollo; ‘for I hanged the last confessor.’

And he wished his nephew a surly good-night, as he prepared to quit the

room.

‘Au revoir, gentlemen,’ said the devil Mercurius; and once more fixed

his tail round the neck of his disappointed companion.

* * * * *

The spirit of poor Rollo was sadly cast down; the devil, on the

contrary, was in high good-humour. He wagged his tail with the most

satisfied air in the world, and cut a hundred jokes at the expense of

his poor associate. On they sped, cleaving swiftly through the cold

night winds, frightening the birds that were roosting in the woods, and

the owls who were watching in the towers.

In the twinkling of an eye, as it is known, devils can fly hundreds of

miles: so that almost the same beat of the clock which left these two in

Champagne, found them hovering over Paris. They dropped into the court

of the Lazarist Convent, and winded their way, through passage and

cloister, until they reached the door of the prior’s cell.

Now the prior, Rollo’s brother, was a wicked and malignant sorcerer; his

time was spent in conjuring devils and doing wicked deeds, instead of

fasting, scourging, and singing holy psalms: this Mercurius knew; and

he, therefore, was fully at ease as to the final result of his wager

with poor Sir Roger.

‘You seem to be well acquainted with the road,’ said the knight.

‘I have reason,’ answered Mercurius, ‘having, for a long period, had the

acquaintance of his reverence, your brother; but you have little chance

with him.’

‘And why?’ said Sir Rollo.

‘He is under a bond to my master never to say a prayer, or else his soul

and his body are forfeited at once.’

‘Why, thou false and traitorous devil!’ said the enraged knight; ‘and

thou knewest this when we made our wager?’

‘Undoubtedly: do you suppose I would have done so had there been any

chance of losing?’

And with this they arrived at Father Ignatius’s door.

‘Thy cursed presence threw a spell on my niece, and stopped the tongue

of my nephew’s chaplain; I do believe that had I seen either of them

alone, my wager had been won.’

‘Certainly; therefore I took good care to go with thee; however, thou

mayest see the prior alone, if thou wilt; and lo! his door is open. I

will stand without for five minutes, when it will be time to commence

our journey.’

It was the poor baron’s last chance; and he entered his brother’s room

more for the five minutes’ respite than from any hope of success.

Father Ignatius, the prior, was absorbed in magic calculations: he stood

in the middle of a circle of skulls, with no garment except his long

white beard, which reached to his knees; he was waving a silver rod, and

muttering imprecations in some horrible tongue.

But Sir Rollo came forward and interrupted his incantation. ‘I am,’ said

he, ‘the shade of thy brother, Roger de Rollo; and have come, from pure

brotherly love, to warn thee of thy fate.’

‘Whence camest thou?’

‘From the abode of the blessed in Paradise,’ replied Sir Roger, who was

inspired with a sudden thought; ‘it was but five minutes ago that the

Patron Saint of thy church told me of thy danger, and of thy wicked

compact with the fiend. “Go,” said he, “to thy miserable brother, and

tell him that there is but one way by which he may escape from paying

the awful forfeit of his bond.’”

‘And how may that be?’ said the prior; ‘the false fiend hath deceived

me; I have given him my soul, but have received no worldly benefit in

return. Brother! dear brother! how may I escape?’

‘I will tell thee. As soon as I heard the voice of blessed St. Mary

Lazarus’ (the worthy earl had, at a pinch, coined the name of a saint),

‘I left the clouds, where, with other angels, I was seated, and sped

hither to save thee. “Thy brother,” said the Saint, “hath but one day

more to live, when he will become for all eternity the subject of Satan;

if he would escape, he must boldly break his bond, by saying an ave.”’

‘It is the express condition of the agreement,’ said the unhappy monk,

‘I must say no prayer, or that instant I become Satan’s, body and soul.’

‘It is the express condition of the Saint,’ answered Roger fiercely:

‘pray, brother, pray, or thou art lost for ever.’

So the foolish monk knelt down, and devoutly sung out an ave, ‘Amen!’

said Sir Roger devoutly.

‘Amen!’ said Mercurius, as, suddenly coming behind, he seized Ignatius

by his long beard, and flew up with him to the top of the

church-steeple.

The monk roared, and screamed, and swore against his brother; but it was

of no avail: Sir Roger smiled kindly on him, and said, ‘Do not fret,

brother; it must have come to this in a year or two.’

And he flew alongside of Mercurius to the steeple-top: _but this time

the devil had not his tail round his neck_. ‘I will let thee off thy

bet,’ said he to the dæmon; for he could afford, now, to be generous.

‘I believe, my lord,’ said the dæmon politely, ‘that our ways separate

here.’ Sir Roger sailed gaily upwards; while Mercurius having bound the

miserable monk faster than ever, he sunk downwards to earth, and perhaps

lower. Ignatius was heard roaring and screaming as the devil dashed him

against the iron spikes and buttresses of the church.

* * * * *

The moral of this story will be given in the second edition.

MADAME SAND AND THE NEW APOCALYPSE

I don’t know an impression more curious than that which is formed in a

foreigner’s mind, who has been absent from this place for two or three

years, returns to it, and beholds the change which has taken place, in

the meantime, in French fashions and ways of thinking. Two years ago,

for instance, when I left the capital, I left the young gentlemen of

France with their hair brushed _en toupet_ in front, and the toes of

their boots round; now the boot-toes are pointed, and the hair, combed

flat and parted in the middle, falls in ringlets on the fashionable

shoulders; and, in like manner, with books as with boots, the fashion

has changed considerably, and it is not a little curious to contrast the

old modes with the new. Absurd as was the literary dandyism of those

days, it is not a whit less absurd now: only the manner is changed, and

our versatile Frenchmen have passed from one caricature to another.

The Revolution may be called a caricature of freedom, as the Empire was

of glory; and what they borrow from foreigners undergoes the same

process. They take top-boots and macintoshes from across the water, and

caricature our fashions; they read a little, very little, Shakespeare,

and caricature our poetry: and while in David’s time art and religion

were only a caricature of heathenism, now, on the contrary, these two

commodities are imported from Germany; and, distorted caricatures

originally, are still further distorted on passing the frontier.

I trust in heaven that German art and religion will take no hold in our

country (where there is a fund of roast-beef that will expel any such

humbug in the end); but these sprightly Frenchmen have relished the

mystical doctrines mightily; and having watched the Germans, with their

sanctified looks, and quaint imitations of the old times, and mysterious

transcendental talk, are aping many of their fashions as well and

solemnly as they can; not very solemnly, God wot; for I think one should

always prepare to grin when a Frenchman looks particularly grave, being

sure that there is something false and ridiculous lurking under the

owl-like solemnity.

When last in Paris, we were in the midst of what was called a Catholic

reaction. Artists talked of faith in poems and pictures; churches were

built here and there; old missals were copied and purchased; and

numberless portraits of saints, with as much gilding about them as ever

was used in the fifteenth century, appeared in churches, ladies’

boudoirs, and picture-shops. One or two fashionable preachers rose, and

were eagerly followed; the very youth of the schools gave up their pipes

and billiards for some time, and flocked in crowds to Notre-Dame, to sit

under the feet of Lacordaire. I went to visit the church of Notre Dame

de Lorette yesterday, which was finished in the heat of this Catholic

rage, and was not a little struck by the similarity of the place to the

worship celebrated in it, and the admirable manner in which the

architect has caused his work to express the public feeling of the

moment. It is a pretty little bijou of a church: it is supported by sham

marble pillars; it has a gaudy ceiling of blue and gold, which will look

very well for some time; and is filled with gaudy pictures and carvings,

in the very pink of the mode. The congregation did not offer a bad

illustration of the present state of Catholic reaction. Two or three

stray people were at prayers; there was no service; a few countrymen and

idlers were staring about at the pictures; and the Swiss, the paid

guardian of the place, was comfortably and appropriately asleep on his

bench at the door. I am inclined to think the famous reaction is over:

the students have taken to their Sunday pipes and billiards again; and

one or two _cafés_ have been established, within the last year, that are

ten times handsomer than Notre Dame de Lorette.

[Illustration: FRENCH CATHOLICISM (_Sketched in the Church of N. D. de

Lorette_)]

However, if the immortal Görres and the German mystics have had their

day, there is the immortal Göthe and the Pantheists; and I incline to

think that the fashion has set very strongly in their favour. Voltaire

and the Encyclopædians are voted, now, _barbares_ and there is no term

of reprobation strong enough for heartless Humes and Helvetiuses, who

lived but to destroy, and who only thought to doubt. Wretched as

Voltaire’s sneers and puns are, I think there is something more manly

and earnest even in them than in the present muddy French

transcendentalism. Pantheism is the word now; one and all have begun to

_éprouver_ the _besoin_ of a religious sentiment; and we are deluged

with a host of gods accordingly. Monsieur de Balzac feels himself to be

inspired; Victor Hugo is a god; Madame Sand is a god; that tawdry man of

genius, Jules Janin, who writes theatrical reviews for the _Débats_, has

divine intimations; and there is scarce a beggarly beardless scribbler

of poems and prose but tells you, in his preface, of the _sainteté_ of

the _sacerdoce littéraire_; or a dirty student, sucking tobacco and

beer, and reeling home with a grisette from the Chaumière, who is not

convinced of the necessity of a new ‘Messianism,’ and will hiccup, to

such as will listen, chapters of his own drunken Apocalypse. Surely, the

negatives of the old days were far less dangerous than the assertions of

the present; and you may fancy what a religion that must be which has

such high priests.

There is no reason to trouble the reader with details of the lives of

many of these prophets and expounders of new revelations. Madame Sand,

for instance, I do not know personally, and can only speak of her from

report. True or false, the history, at any rate, is not very edifying;

and so may be passed over: but, as a certain great philosopher told us,

in very humble and simple words, that we are not to expect to gather

grapes from thorns, or figs from thistles, we may, at least, demand, in

all persons assuming the character of moralist or philosopher--order,

soberness, and regularity of life; for we are apt to distrust the

intellect that we fancy can be swayed by circumstance or passion; and we

know how circumstance and passion _will_ sway the intellect; how

mortified vanity will form excuses for itself; and how temper turns

angrily upon conscience, that reproves it. How often have we called our

judge our enemy, because he has given sentence against us!--How often

have we called the right wrong, because the right condemns us! And in

the lives of many of the bitter foes of the Christian doctrine, can we

find no personal reason for their hostility? The men in Athens said it

was out of regard for religion that they murdered Socrates; but we have

had time, since then, to reconsider the verdict; and Socrates’s

character is pretty pure now, in spite of the sentence and the jury of

those days.

The Parisian philosophers will attempt to explain to you the changes

through which Madame Sand’s mind has passed,--the initiatory trials,

labours, and sufferings which she has had to go through,--before she

reached her present happy state of mental illumination. She teaches her

wisdom in parables, that are, mostly, a couple of volumes long; and

began, first, by an eloquent attack on marriage, in the charming novel

of _Indiana_. ‘Pity,’ cried she, ‘for the poor woman who, united to a

being whose brute force makes him her superior, should venture to break

the bondage which is imposed on her, and allow her heart to be free.’

In support of this claim of pity, she writes two volumes of the most

exquisite prose. What a tender suffering creature is Indiana; how little

her husband appreciates that gentleness which he is crushing by his

tyranny and brutal scorn; how natural it is that, in the absence of his

sympathy, she, poor clinging confiding creature, should seek elsewhere

for shelter; how cautious should we be, to call criminal--to visit with

too heavy a censure--an act which is one of the natural impulses of a

tender heart, that seeks but for a worthy object of love! But why

attempt to tell the tale of beautiful Indiana? Madame Sand has written

it so well, that not the hardest-hearted husband in Christendom can fail

to be touched by her sorrows, though he may refuse to listen to her

argument. Let us grant, for argument’s sake, that the laws of marriage,

especially the French laws of marriage, press very cruelly upon

unfortunate women.

But if one wants to have a question of this, or any nature, honestly

argued, it is better, surely, to apply to an indifferent person for an

umpire. For instance, the stealing of pocket-handkerchiefs or

snuff-boxes may or may not be vicious; but if we, who have not the wit,

or will not take the trouble to decide the question ourselves, want to

hear the real rights of the matter, we should not, surely, apply to a

pickpocket to know what he thought on the point. It might naturally be

presumed that he would be rather a prejudiced person--particularly as

his reasoning, if successful, might get him _out of gaol_. This is a

homely illustration, no doubt; all we would urge by it is, that Madame

Sand having, according to the French newspapers, had a stern husband,

and also having, according to the newspapers, sought ‘sympathy’

elsewhere, her arguments may be considered to be somewhat partial, and

received with some little caution.

And tell us who have been the social reformers?--the haters, that is, of

the present system, according to which we live, love, marry, have

children, educate them, and endow them--_are they pure themselves_? I do

believe not one; and directly a man begins to quarrel with the world and

its ways, and to lift up, as he calls it, the voice of his despair, and

preach passionately to mankind about this tyranny of faith, customs,

laws; if we examine what the personal character of the preacher is, we

begin pretty clearly to understand the value of the doctrine. Any one

can see why Rousseau should be such a whimpering reformer, and Byron

such a free-and-easy misanthropist, and why our accomplished Madame

Sand, who has a genius and eloquence inferior to neither, should take

the present condition of mankind (French-kind) so much to heart, and

labour so hotly to set it right.

After _Indiana_ (which, we presume, contains the lady’s notions upon

wives and husbands) came _Valentine_, which may be said to exhibit her

doctrine, in regard of young men and maidens, to whom the author would

accord, as we fancy, the same tender licence. _Valentine_ was followed

by _Lelia_, a wonderful book indeed, gorgeous in eloquence, and rich in

magnificent poetry; a regular topsyturvyfication of morality, a thieves’

and prostitutes’ apotheosis. This book has received some late

enlargements and emendations by the writer; it contains her notions on

morals, which, as we have said, are so peculiar, that, alas! they can

only be mentioned here, not particularised: but of _Spiridion_ we may

write a few pages, as it is her religious manifesto.

In this work, the lady asserts her Pantheistical doctrine, and openly

attacks the received Christian creed. She declares it to be useless now,

and unfitted to the exigencies and the degree of culture of the actual

world; and, though it would be hardly worth while to combat her opinions

in due form, it is, at least, worth while to notice them, not merely

from the extraordinary eloquence and genius of the woman herself, but

because they express the opinions of a great number of people besides:

for she not only produces her own thoughts, but imitates those of others

very eagerly; and one finds in her writings so much similarity with

others, or, in others, so much resemblance to her, that the book before

us may pass for the expressions of the sentiments of a certain French

party.

‘Dieu est mort,’ says another writer of the same class, and of great

genius too.--‘Dieu est mort,’ writes Mr. Henry Heine, speaking

of the Christian God; and he adds, in a daring figure of

speech,--‘N’entendez-vous pas sonner la clochette?--on porte les

sacrements à un Dieu qui se meurt!’ Another of the Pantheist poetical

philosophers, Mr. Edgar Quinet, has a poem, in which Christ and the

Virgin Mary are made to die similarly, and the former is classed with

Prometheus. This book of _Spiridion_ is a continuation of the theme, and

perhaps you will listen to some of the author’s expositions of it.

It must be confessed that the controversialists of the present day have

an eminent advantage over their predecessors in the days of folios: it

required some learning then to write a book, and some time, at least,

for the very labour of writing out a thousand such vast pages would

demand a considerable period. But now, in the age of duodecimos, the

system is reformed altogether: a male or female controversialist draws

upon his imagination, and not his learning; makes a story instead of an

argument, and, in the course of 150 pages (where the preacher has it all

his own way) will prove or disprove you anything. And, to our shame be

it said, we Protestants have set the example of this kind of

proselytism--those detestable mixtures of truth, lies, false sentiment,

false reasoning, bad grammar, correct and genuine philanthropy and

piety--I mean our religious tracts, which any woman or man, be he ever

so silly, can take upon himself to write, and sell for a penny, as if

religious instruction were the easiest thing in the world. We, I say,

have set the example in this kind of composition, and all the sects of

the earth will, doubtless, speedily follow it. I can point you out

blasphemies in famous pious tracts that are as dreadful as those above

mentioned; but this is no place for such discussions, and we had better

return to Madame Sand. As Mrs. Sherwood expounds, by means of many

touching histories and anecdotes of little boys and girls, her notions

of Church history, Church catechism, Church doctrine;--as the author of

_Father Clement, a Roman Catholic Story_, demolishes the stately

structure of eighteen centuries, the mighty and beautiful Roman Catholic

faith, in whose bosom repose so many saints and sages;--by the means of

a three-and-sixpenny duodecimo volume, which tumbles over the vast

fabric, as David’s pebble-stone did Goliath;--as, again, the Roman

Catholic author of _Geraldine_ falls foul of Luther and Calvin, and

drowns the awful echoes of their tremendous protest by the sounds of her

little half-crown trumpet: in like manner, by means of pretty

sentimental tales, and cheap apologues, Mrs. Sand proclaims _her_

truth--that we need a new Messiah, and that the Christian religion is no

more! O awful, awful name of God! Light unbearable! Mystery

unfathomable! Vastness immeasurable!--Who are these who come forward to

explain the mystery, and gaze unblinking into the depths of the light,

and measure the immeasurable vastness to a hair? O name, that God’s

people of old did fear to utter! O light, that God’s prophet would have

perished had he seen! Who are these that are now so familiar with

it?--Women, truly; for the most part weak women--weak in intellect, weak

mayhap in spelling and grammar, but marvellously strong in

faith:--women, who step down to the people with stately step and voice

of authority, and deliver their twopenny tablets as if there were some

Divine authority for the wretched nonsense recorded there!

With regard to the spelling and grammar, our Parisian Pythoness stands,

in the goodly fellowship, remarkable. Her style is a noble, and, as far

as a foreigner can judge, a strange tongue, beautifully rich and pure.

She has a very exuberant imagination, and, with it, a very chaste style

of expression. She never scarcely indulges in declamation, as other

modern prophets do, and yet her sentences are exquisitely melodious and

full. She seldom runs a thought to death (after the manner of some

prophets, who, when they catch a little one, toy with it until they kill

it), but she leaves you at the end of one of her brief, rich, melancholy

sentences, with plenty of food for future cogitation. I can’t express to

you the charm of them; they seem to me like the sound of country

bells--provoking I don’t know what vein of musing and meditation, and

falling sweetly and sadly on the ear.

This wonderful power of language must have been felt by most people who

read Madame Sand’s first books, _Valentine_ and _Indiana_: in

_Spiridion_ it is greater, I think, than ever; and for those who are not

afraid of the matter of the novel, the manner will be found most

delightful. The author’s intention, I presume, is to describe, in a

parable, her notions of the downfall of the Catholic Church; and,

indeed, of the whole Christian scheme: and she places her hero in a

monastery in Italy, where, among the characters about him, and the

events which occur, the particular tenets of Madame Dudevant’s doctrine

are not inaptly laid down. Innocent, faithful, tender-hearted, a young

monk, by name Angel, finds himself, when he has pronounced his vows, an

object of aversion and hatred to the godly men whose lives he so much

respects, and whose love he would make any sacrifice to win. After

enduring much, he flings himself at the feet of his confessor, and begs

for his sympathy and counsel; but the confessor spurns him away, and

accuses him, fiercely, of some unknown and terrible crime--bids him

never return to the confessional until contrition has touched his heart,

and the stains which sully his spirit are, by sincere repentance, washed

away.

‘Thus speaking,’ says Angel, ‘Father Hegesippus tore away his robe,

which I was holding in my supplicating hands. In a sort of wildness

I still grasped it tighter; he pushed me fiercely from him, and I

fell with my face towards the ground. He quitted me, closing

violently after him the door of the sacristy, in which this scene

had passed. I was left alone in the darkness. Either from the

violence of my fall, or the excess of my grief, a vein had burst in

my throat, and a hæmorrhage ensued. I had not the force to rise; I

felt my senses rapidly sinking, and, presently, I lay stretched on

the pavement, unconscious, and bathed in my blood.’

Now the wonderful part of the story begins.

‘I know not how much time I passed in this way. As I came to myself I

felt an agreeable coolness. It seemed as if some harmonious air was

playing round about me, stirring gently in my hair, and drying the drops

of perspiration on my brow. It seemed to approach, and then again to

withdraw, breathing now softly and sweetly in the distance, and now

returning, as if to give me strength and courage to rise.

‘I would not, however, do so as yet; for I felt myself, as I lay, under

the influence of a pleasure quite new to me; and listened, in a kind of

peaceful aberration, to the gentle murmurs of the summer wind, as it

breathed on me through the closed window-blinds above me. Then I fancied

I heard a voice that spoke to me from the end of the sacristy: it

whispered so low that I could not catch the words. I remained

motionless, and gave it my whole attention. At last I heard, distinctly,

the following sentence:--_Spirit of Truth, raise up these victims of

ignorance and imposture_.” “Father Hegesippus,” said I, in a weak voice,

“is that you who are returning to me?” But no one answered. I lifted

myself on my hands and knees, I listened again, but I heard nothing. I

got up completely, and looked about me: I had fallen so near to the only

door in this little room, that none, after the departure of the

confessor, could have entered it without passing over me; besides, the

door was shut, and only opened from the inside by a strong lock of the

ancient shape. I touched it and assured myself that it was closed. I was

seized with terror, and, for some moments, did not dare to move. Leaning

against the door, I looked round, and endeavoured to see into the gloom

in which the angles of the room were enveloped. A pale light, which came

from an upper window, half closed, was to be seen trembling in the midst

of the apartment. The wind beat the shutter to and fro, and enlarged or

diminished the space through which the light issued. The objects which

were in this half light--the praying-desk, surmounted by its skull--a

few books lying on the benches--a surplice hanging against the

wall--seemed to move with the shadow of the foliage that the air

agitated behind the window. When I thought I was alone, I felt ashamed

of my former timidity; I made the sign of the cross, and was about to

move forward in order to open the shutter altogether, but a deep sigh

came from the praying-desk, and kept me nailed to my place. And yet I

saw the desk distinctly enough to be sure that no person was near it.

Then I had an idea which gave me courage. Some person, I thought, is

behind the shutter, and has been saying his prayers outside without

thinking of me. But who would be so bold as to express such wishes and

utter such a prayer as I had just heard?

‘Curiosity, the only passion and amusement permitted in a cloister, now

entirely possessed me, and I advanced towards the window. But I had not

made a step when a black shadow, as it seemed to me, detaching itself

from the praying-desk, traversed the room, directing itself towards the

window, and passed swiftly by me. The movement was so rapid that I had

not time to avoid what seemed a body advancing towards me, and my fright

was so great, that I thought I should faint a second time. But I felt

nothing, and, as if the shadow had passed through me, I saw it suddenly

disappear to my left.