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The Paris Sketch Book

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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


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

Acting on these principles, Robert appears soon after; he has not
created a bank, but a journal. He sits in a chair of state, and
discourses to a shareholder. Bertrand, calm and stupid as before,
stands humbly behind. "Sir," says the editor of La Blague, journal
quotidienne, "our profits arise from a new combination. The
journal costs twenty francs; we sell it for twenty-three and a
half. A million subscribers make three millions and a half of
profits; there are my figures; contradict me by figures, or I will
bring an action for libel." The reader may fancy the scene takes
place in England, where many such a swindling prospectus has
obtained credit ere now. At Plate 33, Robert is still a journalist;
he brings to the editor of a paper an article of his composition, a
violent attack on a law. "My dear M. Macaire," says the editor,
"this must be changed; we must PRAISE this law." "Bon, bon!" says
our versatile Macaire. "Je vais retoucher ça, et je vous fais en
faveur de la loi UN ARTICLE MOUSSEUX."

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

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


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


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

When Macaire has sufficiently exploité the Bourse, whether as a
gambler in the public funds or other companies, he sagely perceives
that it is time to turn to some other profession, and, providing
himself with a black gown, proposes blandly to Bertrand to set up--
a new religion. "Mon ami," says the repentant sinner, "le temps de
la commandite va passer, MAIS LES BADAUDS NE PASSERONT PAS." (O
rare sentence! it should be written in letters of gold!) "OCCUPONS
NOUS DE CE QUI EST ÉTERNEL. Si nous fassions une réligion?" On
which M. Bertrand remarks, "A religion! what the devil--a religion
is not an easy thing to make." But Macaire's receipt is easy.
"Get a gown, take a shop," he says, "borrow some chairs, preach
about Napoleon, or the discovery of America, or Molière--and
there's a religion for you."

We have quoted this sentence more for the contrast it offers with
our own manners, than for its merits. After the noble paragraph,
"Les badauds ne passeront pas. Occupons nous de ce qui est
éternel," one would have expected better satire upon cant than the
words that follow. We are not in a condition to say whether the
subjects chosen are those that had been selected by Père Enfantin,
or Chatel, or Lacordaire; but the words are curious, we think, for
the very reason that the satire is so poor. The fact is, there is
no religion in Paris; even clever M. Philipon, who satirizes
everything, and must know, therefore, some little about the subject
which he ridicules, has nothing to say but, "Preach a sermon, and
that makes a religion; anything will do." If ANYTHING will do, it
is clear that the religious commodity is not in much demand.
Tartuffe had better things to say about hypocrisy in his time; but
then Faith was alive; now, there is no satirizing religious cant in
France, for its contrary, true religion, has disappeared altogether;
and having no substance, can cast no shadow. If a satirist would
lash the religious hypocrites in ENGLAND now--the High Church
hypocrites, the Low Church hypocrites, the promiscuous Dissenting
hypocrites, the No Popery hypocrites--he would have ample subject
enough. In France, the religious hypocrites went out with the
Bourbons. Those who remain pious in that country (or, rather, we
should say, in the capital, for of that we speak,) are unaffectedly
so, for they have no worldly benefit to hope for from their piety;
the great majority have no religion at all, and do not scoff at the
few, for scoffing is the minority's weapon, and is passed always to
the weaker side, whatever that may be. Thus H. B. caricatures the
Ministers: if by any accident that body of men should be dismissed
from their situations, and be succeeded by H. B.'s friends, the
Tories,--what must the poor artist do? He must pine away and die,
if he be not converted; he cannot always be paying compliments; for
caricature has a spice of Goethe's Devil in it, and is "der Geist
der stets verneint," the Spirit that is always denying.

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

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

"Mon cher Bertrand, donne moi cent écus, je te fais acquitter
d'emblée."

"J'ai pas d'argent."

"Hé bien, donne moi cent francs."

"Pas le sou."

"Tu n'as pas dix francs?"

"Pas un liard."

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

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

M. Macaire is more skilful in love than in law, and appears once or
twice in a very amiable light while under the influence of the
tender passion. We find him at the head of one of those useful
establishments unknown in our country--a Bureau de Mariage: half a
dozen of such places are daily advertised in the journals: and "une
veuve de trente ans ayant une fortune de deux cent mille francs,"
or "une demoiselle de quinze aus, jolie, d'une famille très
distinguée, qui possède trente mille livres de rentes,"--
continually, in this kind-hearted way, are offering themselves to
the public: sometimes it is a gentleman, with a "physique
agréable,--des talens de société"--and a place under Government,
who makes a sacrifice of himself in a similar manner. In our
little historical gallery we find this philanthropic anti-Malthusian
at the head of an establishment of this kind, introducing a very
meek, simple-looking bachelor to some distinguished ladies of his
connoissance. "Let me present you, sir, to Madame de St. Bertrand"
(it is our old friend), "veuve de la grande armée, et Mdlle Eloa de
Wormspire. Ces dames brûlent de l'envie de faire votre connoissance.
Je les ai invitées à dîner chez vous ce soir: vous nous menerez à
l'opéra, et nous ferons une petite partie d'écarté. Tenez vous bien,
M. Gobard! ces dames ont des projets sur vous!"

Happy Gobard! happy system, which can thus bring the pure and
loving together, and acts as the best ally of Hymen! The
announcement of the rank and titles of Madame de St. Bertrand--
"veuve de la grande armée"--is very happy. "La grande armée" has
been a father to more orphans, and a husband to more widows, than
it ever made. Mistresses of cafés, old governesses, keepers of
boarding-houses, genteel beggars, and ladies of lower rank still,
have this favorite pedigree. They have all had malheurs (what kind
it is needless to particularize), they are all connected with the
grand homme, and their fathers were all colonels. This title
exactly answers to the "clergyman's daughter" in England--as, "A
young lady, the daughter of a clergyman, is desirous to teach," &c.
"A clergyman's widow receives into her house a few select," and so
forth. "Appeal to the benevolent.--By a series of unheard-of
calamities, a young lady, daughter of a clergyman in the west of
England, has been plunged," &c. &c. The difference is curious, as
indicating the standard of respectability.

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

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