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The Paris Sketch Book

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"The charge against Edward Ancel must be examined into," said St.
Just. "The marriage cannot take place. But if I had ratified it,
Mary Ancel, what then would have been your course?"

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


* This reply, and, indeed, the whole of the story, is historical.
An account, by Charles Nodier, in the Revue de Paris, suggested it
to the writer.


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

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

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

"And Mary?" said I.

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

"This is Mary Ancel," said the Captain, "and I am Captain Pierre,
and yonder is the Colonel, my son; and you see us here assembled in
force, for it is the fête of little Jacob yonder, whose brothers
and sisters have all come from their schools to dance at his
birthday."




BEATRICE MERGER.


Beatrice Merger, whose name might figure at the head of one of Mr.
Colburn’s politest romances--so smooth and aristocratic does it
sound--is no heroine, except of her own simple history; she is not
a fashionable French Countess, nor even a victim of the Revolution.

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

"My father died," said Beatrice, "about six years since, and left
my poor mother with little else but a small cottage and a strip of
land, and four children too young to work. It was hard enough in
my father’s time to supply so many little mouths with food; and how
was a poor widowed woman to provide for them now, who had neither
the strength nor the opportunity for labor?

"Besides us, to be sure, there was my old aunt; and she would have
helped us, but she could not, for the old woman is bed-ridden; so
she did nothing but occupy our best room, and grumble from morning
till night: heaven knows, poor old soul, that she had no great
reason to be very happy; for you know, sir, that it frets the
temper to be sick; and that it is worse still to be sick and hungry
too.

"At that time, in the country where we lived (in Picardy, not very
far from Boulogne), times were so bad that the best workman could
hardly find employ; and when he did, he was happy if he could earn
a matter of twelve sous a day. Mother, work as she would, could
not gain more than six; and it was a hard job, out of this, to put
meat into six bellies, and clothing on six backs. Old Aunt Bridget
would scold, as she got her portion of black bread; and my little
brothers used to cry if theirs did not come in time. I, too, used
to cry when I got my share; for mother kept only a little, little
piece for herself, and said that she had dined in the fields,--God
pardon her for the lie! and bless her, as I am sure He did; for,
but for Him, no working man or woman could subsist upon such a
wretched morsel as my dear mother took.

"I was a thin, ragged, barefooted girl, then, and sickly and weak
for want of food; but I think I felt mother’s hunger more than my
own: and many and many a bitter night I lay awake, crying, and
praying to God to give me means of working for myself and aiding
her. And he has, indeed, been good to me," said pious Beatrice,
"for He has given me all this!

"Well, time rolled on, and matters grew worse than ever: winter
came, and was colder to us than any other winter, for our clothes
were thinner and more torn; mother sometimes could find no work,
for the fields in which she labored were hidden under the snow; so
that when we wanted them most we had them least--warmth, work, or
food.

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

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

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

"I heard the old woman screaming after me, but I did not stop nor
turn round. I don't think I could, for my heart was very full; and
if I had gone back again, I should never have had the courage to go
away. So I walked a long, long way, until night fell; and I
thought of poor mother coming home from mass, and not finding me;
and little Pierre shouting out, in his clear voice, for Beatrice to
bring him his supper. I think I should like to have died that
night, and I thought I should too; for when I was obliged to throw
myself on the cold, hard ground, my feet were too torn and weary to
bear me any further.

"Just then the moon got up; and do you know I felt a comfort in
looking at it, for I knew it was shining on our little cottage, and
it seemed like an old friend's face? A little way on, as I saw by
the moon, was a village: and I saw, too, that a man was coming
towards me; he must have heard me crying, I suppose.

"Was not God good to me? This man was a farmer, who had need of a
girl in his house; he made me tell him why I was alone, and I told
him the same story I have told you, and he believed me and took me
home. I had walked six long leagues from our village that day,
asking everywhere for work in vain; and here, at bedtime, I found a
bed and a supper!

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

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

"You may fancy what a fête it was when I came back; though I'm sure
we cried as much as if it had been a funeral. Mother got into a
fit, which frightened us all; and as for Aunt Bridget, she SKREELED
away for hours together, and did not scold for two days at least.
Little Pierre offered me the whole of his supper; poor little man!
his slice of bread was no bigger than before I went away.

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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


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


This angel is without a place; and for this reason (besides the
pleasure of composing the above slap at episcopacy)--I have indited
her history. If the Bishop is going to Paris, and wants a good
honest maid-of-all-work, he can have her, I have no doubt; or if he
chooses to give a few pounds to her mother, they can be sent to Mr.
Titmarsh, at the publisher's.

Here is Miss Merger's last letter and autograph. The note was
evidently composed by an Ecrivain public:--


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

Beatrice Merger.




CARICATURES AND LITHOGRAPHY IN PARIS.


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

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

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

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


* These countries are, to be sure, inundated with the productions
of our market, in the shape of Byron Beauties, reprints from the
"Keepsakes," "Books of Beauty," and such trash; but these are only
of late years, and their original schools of art are still
flourishing.


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

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

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