A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P R S T U V W X Z

The Paris Sketch Book

W >> William Makepeace Thackeray >> The Paris Sketch Book




I saw how it had been.--"A little too much of Mr. Ringwood's
claret, I suppose?"

He only gave a sickly stare.

"Where does the Honorable Tom live?" says I.

"HONORABLE!" says Sam, with a hollow, horrid laugh; "I tell you,
Tit, he's no more Honorable than you are."

"What, an impostor?"

"No, no; not that. He is a real Honorable, only--"

"Oh, ho! I smell a rat--a little jealous, eh?"

"Jealousy be hanged! I tell you he's a thief; and the Baron's a
thief; and, hang me, if I think his wife is any better. Eight-and-
thirty pounds he won of me before supper; and made me drunk, and
sent me home:--is THAT honorable? How can I afford to lose forty
pounds? It's took me two years to save it up--if my old aunt gets
wind of it, she'll cut me off with a shilling: hang me!"--and here
Sam, in an agony, tore his fair hair.

While bewailing his lot in this lamentable strain, his bell was
rung, which signal being answered by a surly "Come in," a tall,
very fashionable gentleman, with a fur coat, and a fierce tuft to
his chin, entered the room. "Pogson my buck, how goes it?" said
he, familiarly, and gave a stare at me: I was making for my hat.

"Don't go," said Sam, rather eagerly; and I sat down again.

The Honorable Mr. Ringwood hummed and ha'd: and, at last, said he
wished to speak to Mr. Pogson on business, in private, if possible.

"There's no secrets betwixt me and my friend," cried Sam.

Mr. Ringwood paused a little:--"An awkward business that of last
night," at length exclaimed he.

"I believe it WAS an awkward business," said Sam, dryly.

"I really am very sorry for your losses."

"Thank you: and so am I, I can tell you," said Sam.

"You must mind, my good fellow, and not drink; for, when you drink,
you WILL play high: by Gad, you led US in, and not we you."

"I dare say," answered Sam, with something of peevishness; "losses
is losses: there's no use talking about 'em when they're over and
paid."

"And paid?" here wonderingly spoke Mr. Ringwood; "why, my dear fel--
what the deuce--has Florval been with you?"

"D--- Florval!" growled Sam, "I've never set eyes on his face since
last night; and never wish to see him again."

"Come, come, enough of this talk; how do you intend to settle the
bills which you gave him last night?"

"Bills I what do you mean?"

"I mean, sir, these bills," said the Honorable Tom, producing two
out of his pocket-book, and looking as stern as a lion. "'I
promise to pay, on demand, to the Baron de Florval, the sum of four
hundred pounds. October 20, 1838.' 'Ten days after date I promise
to pay the Baron de et caetera et caetera, one hundred and ninety-
eight pounds. Samuel Pogson.' You didn't say what regiment you
were in."

"WHAT!" shouted poor Sam, as from a dream, starting up and looking
preternaturally pale and hideous.

"D--- it, sir, you don't affect ignorance: you don't pretend not to
remember that you signed these bills, for money lost in my rooms:
money LENT to you, by Madame de Florval, at your own request, and
lost to her husband? You don't suppose, sir, that I shall be such
an infernal idiot as to believe you, or such a coward as to put up
with a mean subterfuge of this sort. Will you, or will you not,
pay the money, sir?"

"I will not," said Sam, stoutly; "it's a d----d swin--"

Here Mr. Ringwood sprung up, clenching his riding-whip, and looking
so fierce that Sam and I bounded back to the other end of the room.
"Utter that word again, and, by heaven, I'll murder you!" shouted
Mr. Ringwood, and looked as if he would, too: "once more, will you,
or will you not, pay this money?"

"I can't," said Sam faintly.

"I'll call again, Captain Pogson," said Mr. Ringwood, "I'll call
again in one hour; and, unless you come to some arrangement, you
must meet my friend, the Baron de Florval, or I'll post you for a
swindler and a coward." With this he went out: the door thundered
to after him, and when the clink of his steps departing had
subsided, I was enabled to look round at Pog. The poor little man
had his elbows on the marble table, his head between his hands, and
looked, as one has seen gentlemen look over a steam-vessel off
Ramsgate, the wind blowing remarkably fresh: at last he fairly
burst out crying.

"If Mrs. Pogson heard of this," said I, "what would become of the
'Three Tuns?'" (for I wished to give him a lesson). "If your Ma,
who took you every Sunday to meeting, should know that her boy was
paying attention to married women;--if Drench, Glauber and Co.,
your employers, were to know that their confidential agent was a
gambler, and unfit to be trusted with their money, how long do you
think your connection would last with them, and who would
afterwards employ you?"

To this poor Pog had not a word of answer; but sat on his sofa
whimpering so bitterly, that the sternest of moralists would have
relented towards him, and would have been touched by the little
wretch's tears. Everything, too, must be pleaded in excuse for
this unfortunate bagman: who, if he wished to pass for a captain,
had only done so because he had an intense respect and longing for
rank: if he had made love to the Baroness, had only done so because
he was given to understand by Lord Byron's "Don Juan" that making
love was a very correct, natty thing: and if he had gambled, had
only been induced to do so by the bright eyes and example of the
Baron and the Baroness. O ye Barons and Baronesses of England! if
ye knew what a number of small commoners are daily occupied in
studying your lives, and imitating your aristocratic ways, how
careful would ye be of your morals, manners, and conversation!

My soul was filled, then, with a gentle yearning pity for Pogson,
and revolved many plans for his rescue: none of these seeming to
be practicable, at last we hit on the very wisest of all, and
determined to apply for counsel to no less a person than Major
British.

A blessing it is to be acquainted with my worthy friend, little
Major British; and heaven, sure, it was that put the Major into my
head, when I heard of this awkward scrape of poor Fog's. The Major
is on half-pay, and occupies a modest apartment au quatrième, in
the very hotel which Pogson had patronized at my suggestion;
indeed, I had chosen it from Major British's own peculiar
recommendation.

There is no better guide to follow than such a character as the
honest Major, of whom there are many likenesses now scattered over
the Continent of Europe: men who love to live well, and are forced
to live cheaply, and who find the English abroad a thousand times
easier, merrier, and more hospitable than the same persons at home.
I, for my part, never landed on Calais pier without feeling that a
load of sorrows was left on the other side of the water; and have
always fancied that black care stepped on board the steamer, along
with the custom-house officers at Gravesend, and accompanied one to
yonder black louring towers of London--so busy, so dismal, and so
vast.

British would have cut any foreigner's throat who ventured to say
so much, but entertained, no doubt, private sentiments of this
nature; for he passed eight months of the year, regularly, abroad,
with headquarters at Paris (the garrets before alluded to), and
only went to England for the month's shooting, on the grounds of
his old colonel, now an old lord, of whose acquaintance the Major
was passably inclined to boast.

He loved and respected, like a good staunch Tory as he is, every
one of the English nobility; gave himself certain little airs of
a man of fashion, that were by no means disagreeable; and was,
indeed, kindly regarded by such English aristocracy as he met, in
his little annual tours among the German courts, in Italy or in
Paris, where he never missed an ambassador's night: he retailed to
us, who didn't go, but were delighted to know all that had taken
place, accurate accounts of the dishes, the dresses, and the
scandal which had there fallen under his observation.

He is, moreover, one of the most useful persons in society that can
possibly be; for besides being incorrigibly duelsome on his own
account, he is, for others, the most acute and peaceable counsellor
in the world, and has carried more friends through scrapes and
prevented more deaths than any member of the Humane Society.
British never bought a single step in the army, as is well known.
In '14 he killed a celebrated French fire-eater,, who had slain a
young friend of his, and living, as he does, a great deal with
young men of pleasure, and good old sober family people, he is
loved by them both and has as welcome a place made for him at a
roaring bachelor's supper at the "Café Anglais," as at a staid
dowager's dinner-table in the Faubourg St. Honoré. Such pleasant
old boys are very profitable acquaintances, let me tell you; and
lucky is the young man who has one or two such friends in his list.

Hurrying on Fogson in his dress, I conducted him, panting, up to
the Major's quatrième, where we were cheerfully bidden to come in.
The little gentleman was in his travelling jacket, and occupied in
painting, elegantly, one of those natty pairs of boots in which he
daily promenaded the Boulevards. A couple of pairs of tough buff
gloves had been undergoing some pipe-claying operation under his
hands; no man stepped out so spick and span, with a hat so nicely
brushed, with a stiff cravat tied so neatly under a fat little red
face, with a blue frock-coat so scrupulously fitted to a punchy
little person, as Major British, about whom we have written these
two pages. He stared rather hardly at my companion, but gave me a
kind shake of the hand, and we proceeded at once to business.
"Major British," said I, "we want your advice in regard to an
unpleasant affair which has just occurred to my friend Pogson."

"Pogson, take a chair."

"You must know, sir, that Mr. Pogson, coming from Calais the other
day, encountered, in the diligence, a very handsome woman."

British winked at Pogson, who, wretched as he was, could not help
feeling pleased.

"Mr. Pogson was not more pleased with this lovely creature than was
she with him; for, it appears, she gave him her card, invited him
to her house, where he has been constantly, and has been received
with much kindness."

"I see," says British.

"Her husband the Baron--"

"NOW it's coming," said the Major, with a grin: "her husband is
jealous, I suppose, and there is a talk of the Bois de Boulogne: my
dear sir, you can't refuse--can't refuse."

"It's not that," said Pogson, wagging his head passionately.

"Her husband the Baron seemed quite as much taken with Pogson as
his lady was, and has introduced him to some very distingué friends
of his own set. Last night one of the Baron's friends gave a party
in honor of my friend Pogson, who lost forty-eight pounds at cards
BEFORE he was made drunk, and heaven knows how much after."

"Not a shilling, by sacred heaven!--not a shilling!" yelled out
Pogson. "After the supper I 'ad such an 'eadach', I couldn't do
anything but fall asleep on the sofa."

"You 'ad such an 'eadach', sir," says British, sternly, who piques
himself on his grammar and pronunciation, and scorns a cockney.

Such a H-eadache, sir," replied Pogson, with much meekness.

"The unfortunate man is brought home at two o'clock, as tipsy as
possible, dragged up stairs, senseless, to bed, and, on waking,
receives a visit from his entertainer of the night before--a lord's
son, Major, a tip-top fellow,--who brings a couple of bills that my
friend Pogson is said to have signed."

"Well, my dear fellow, the thing's quite simple,--he must pay
them."

"I can't pay them."

"He can't pay them," said we both in a breath: "Pogson is a
commercial traveller, with thirty shillings a week, and how the
deuce is he to pay five hundred pounds?"

"A bagman, sir! and what right has a bagman to gamble? Gentlemen
gamble, sir; tradesmen, sir, have no business with the amusements
of the gentry. What business had you with barons and lords' sons,
sir?--serve you right, sir."

"Sir," says Pogson, with some dignity, "merit, and not birth, is
the criterion of a man: I despise an hereditary aristocracy, and
admire only Nature's gentlemen. For my part, I think that a
British merch--"

"Hold your tongue, sir," bounced out the Major, "and don't lecture
me; don't come to me, sir, with your slang about Nature's
gentlemen--Nature's tomfools, sir! Did Nature open a cash account
for you at a banker's, sir? Did Nature give you an education, sir?
What do you mean by competing with people to whom Nature has given
all these things? Stick to your bags, Mr. Pogson, and your bagmen,
and leave barons and their like to their own ways."

"Yes, but, Major," here cried that faithful friend, who has always
stood by Pogson; "they won't leave him alone."

"The honorable gent says I must fight if I don't pay," whimpered
Sam.

"What! fight YOU? Do you mean that the honorable gent, as you call
him, will go out with a bagman?"

"He doesn't know I'm a--I'm a commercial man," blushingly said Sam:
"he fancies I'm a military gent."

The Major's gravity was quite upset at this absurd notion; and he
laughed outrageously. "Why, the fact is, sir," said I, "that my
friend Pogson, knowing the value of the title of Captain, and being
complimented by the Baroness on his warlike appearance, said,
boldly, he was in the army. He only assumed the rank in order to
dazzle her weak imagination, never fancying that there was a
husband, and a circle of friends, with whom he was afterwards to
make an acquaintance; and then, you know, it was too late to
withdraw."

"A pretty pickle you have put yourself in, Mr. Pogson, by making
love to other men's wives, and calling yourself names," said the
Major, who was restored to good humor. "And pray, who is the
honorable gent?"

"The Earl of Cinqbars' son," says Pogson, "the Honorable Tom
Ringwood."

"I thought it was some such character; and the Baron is the Baron
de Florval-Delval?"

"The very same."

"And his wife a black-haired woman, with a pretty foot and ankle;
calls herself Athenais; and is always talking about her trente-deux
ans? Why, sir, that woman was an actress on the Boulevard, when we
were here in '15. She's no more his wife than I am. Delval's name
is Chicot. The woman is always travelling between London and
Paris: I saw she was hooking you at Calais; she has hooked ten men,
in the course of the last two years, in this very way. She lent
you money, didn't she?" "Yes." "And she leans on your shoulder,
and whispers, 'Play half for me,' and somebody wins it, and the
poor thing is as sorry as you are, and her husband storms and
rages, and insists on double stakes; and she leans over your
shoulder again, and tells every card in your hand to your
adversary, and that's the way it's done, Mr. Pogson."

"I've been 'AD, I see I 'ave," said Pogson, very humbly.

"Well, sir," said the Major, "in consideration, not of you, sir--
for, give me leave to tell you, Mr. Pogson, that you are a pitiful
little scoundrel--in consideration for my Lord Cinqbars, sir, with
whom, I am proud to say, I am intimate," (the Major dearly loved a
lord, and was, by his own showing, acquainted with half the
peerage,) "I will aid you in this affair. Your cursed vanity, sir,
and want of principle, has set you, in the first place, intriguing
with other men's wives; and if you had been shot for your pains, a
bullet would have only served you right, sir. You must go about as
an impostor, sir, in society; and you pay richly for your swindling,
sir, by being swindled yourself: but, as I think your punishment has
been already pretty severe, I shall do my best, out of regard for my
friend, Lord Cinqbars, to prevent the matter going any farther; and
I recommend you to leave Paris without delay. Now let me wish you a
good morning."--Wherewith British made a majestic bow, and began
giving the last touch to his varnished boots.

We departed: poor Sam perfectly silent and chapfallen; and I
meditating on the wisdom of the half-pay philosopher, and wondering
what means he would employ to rescue Pogson from his fate.

What these means were I know not; but Mr. Ringwood did NOT make his
appearance at six; and, at eight, a letter arrived for "Mr. Pogson,
commercial traveller," &c. &c. It was blank inside, but contained
his two bills. Mr. Ringwood left town, almost immediately, for
Vienna; nor did the Major explain the circumstances which caused
his departure; but he muttered something about "knew some of his
old tricks," "threatened police, and made him disgorge directly."

Mr. Ringwood is, as yet, young at his trade; and I have often
thought it was very green of him to give up the bills to the Major,
who, certainly, would never have pressed the matter before the
police, out of respect for his friend, Lord Cinqbars.




THE FÊTES OF JULY.

IN A LETTER TO THE EDITOR OF THE "BUNGAY BEACON."


PARIS, July 30th, 1839.

We have arrived here just in time for the fêtes of July.--You have
read, no doubt, of that glorious revolution which took place here
nine years ago, and which is now commemorated annually, in a pretty
facetious manner, by gun-firing, student-processions, pole-
climbing-for-silver-spoons, gold-watches and legs-of-mutton,
monarchical orations, and what not, and sanctioned, moreover, by
Chamber-of-Deputies, with a grant of a couple of hundred thousand
francs to defray the expenses of all the crackers, gun-firings, and
legs-of-mutton aforesaid. There is a new fountain in the Place
Louis Quinze, otherwise called the Place Louis Seize, or else the
Place de la Révolution, or else the Place de la Concorde (who can
say why?)--which, I am told, is to run bad wine during certain
hours to-morrow, and there WOULD have been a review of the National
Guards and the Line--only, since the Fieschi business, reviews are
no joke, and so this latter part of the festivity has been
discontinued.

Do you not laugh, O Pharos of Bungay, at the continuance of a
humbug such as this?--at the humbugging anniversary of a humbug?
The King of the Barricades is, next to the Emperor Nicholas, the
most absolute Sovereign in Europe; yet there is not in the whole of
this fair kingdom of France a single man who cares sixpence about
him, or his dynasty: except, mayhap, a few hangers-on at the
Château, who eat his dinners, and put their hands in his purse.
The feeling of loyalty is as dead as old Charles the Tenth; the
Chambers have been laughed at, the country has been laughed at, all
the successive ministries have been laughed at (and you know who is
the wag that has amused himself with them all); and, behold, here
come three days at the end of July, and cannons think it necessary
to fire off, squibs and crackers to blaze and fizz, fountains to
run wine, kings to make speeches, and subjects to crawl up greasy
mâts-de-cocagne in token of gratitude and réjouissance publique!--
My dear sir, in their aptitude to swallow, to utter, to enact
humbugs, these French people, from Majesty downwards, beat all the
other nations of this earth. In looking at these men, their
manners, dresses, opinions, politics, actions, history, it is
impossible to preserve a grave countenance; instead of having
Carlyle to write a History of the French Revolution, I often think
it should be handed over to Dickens or Theodore Hook: and oh! where
is the Rabelais to be the faithful historian of the last phase of
the Revolution--the last glorious nine years of which we are now
commemorating the last glorious three days?

I had made a vow not to say a syllable on the subject, although I
have seen, with my neighbors, all the gingerbread stalls down the
Champs Elysées, and some of the "catafalques" erected to the memory
of the heroes of July, where the students and others, not connected
personally with the victims, and not having in the least profited
by their deaths, come and weep; but the grief shown on the first
day is quite as absurd and fictitious as the joy exhibited on the
last. The subject is one which admits of much wholesome reflection
and food for mirth; and, besides, is so richly treated by the
French themselves, that it would be a sin and a shame to pass it
over. Allow me to have the honor of translating, for your
edification, an account of the first day's proceedings--it is
mighty amusing, to my thinking.


"CELEBRATION OF THE DAYS OF JULY.

"To-day (Saturday), funeral ceremonies, in honor of the victims of
July, were held in the various edifices consecrated to public
worship.

"These edifices, with the exception of some churches (especially
that of the Petits-Pères), were uniformly hung with black on the
outside; the hangings bore only this inscription: 27, 28, 29 July,
1830--surrounded by a wreath of oak-leaves.

"In the interior of the Catholic churches, it had only been thought
proper to dress LITTLE CATAFALQUES, as for burials of the third and
fourth class. Very few clergy attended; but a considerable number
of the National Guard.

"The Synagogue of the Israelites was entirely hung with black; and
a great concourse of people attended. The service was performed
with the greatest pomp.

"In the Protestant temples there was likewise a very full
attendance: APOLOGETICAL DISCOURSES on the Revolution of July were
pronounced by the pastors.

"The absence of M. de Quélen (Archbishop of Paris), and of many
members of the superior clergy, was remarked at Notre Dame.

"The civil authorities attended service in their several districts.

"The poles, ornamented with tri-colored flags, which formerly were
placed on Notre Dame, were, it was remarked, suppressed. The flags
on the Pont Neuf were, during the ceremony, only half-mast high,
and covered with crape."

Et caetera, et caetera, et caetera.

"The tombs of the Louvre were covered with black hangings, and
adorned with tri-colored flags. In front and in the middle was
erected an expiatory monument of a pyramidical shape, and
surmounted by a funeral vase.

"These tombs were guarded by the MUNICIPAL GUARD, THE TROOPS OF THE
LINE, THE SERGENS DE VILLE (town patrol), AND A BRIGADE OF AGENTS
OF POLICE IN PLAIN CLOTHES, under the orders of peace-officer
Vassal.

"Between eleven and twelve o'clock, some young men, to the number
of 400 or 500, assembled on the Place de la Bourse, one of them
bearing a tri-colored banner with an inscription, 'TO THE MANES OF
JULY:' ranging themselves in order, they marched five abreast to
the Marché des Innocens. On their arrival, the Municipal Guards of
the Halle aux Draps, where the post had been doubled, issued out
without arms, and the town-sergeants placed themselves before the
market to prevent the entry of the procession. The young men
passed in perfect order, and without saying a word--only lifting
their hats as they defiled before the tombs. When they arrived at
the Louvre they found the gates shut, and the garden evacuated.
The troops were under arms, and formed in battalion.

"After the passage of the procession, the Garden was again open to
the public."

And the evening and the morning were the first day.

There's nothing serious in mortality: is there, from the beginning
of this account to the end thereof, aught but sheer, open,
monstrous, undisguised humbug? I said, before, that you should
have a history of these people by Dickens or Theodore Hook, but
there is little need of professed wags;--do not the men write their
own tale with an admirable Sancho-like gravity and naïveté, which
one could not desire improved? How good is that touch of sly
indignation about the LITTLE CATAFALQUES! how rich the contrast
presented by the economy of the Catholics to the splendid disregard
of expense exhibited by the devout Jews! and how touching the
"APOLOGETICAL DISCOURSES on the Revolution," delivered by the
Protestant pastors! Fancy the profound affliction of the Gardes
Municipaux, the Sergens de Ville, the police agents in plain
clothes, and the troops with fixed bayonets, sobbing round the
"expiatory monuments of a pyramidical shape, surmounted by funeral
vases," and compelled, by sad duty, to fire into the public who
might wish to indulge in the same woe! O "manes of July!" (the
phrase is pretty and grammatical) why did you with sharp bullets
break those Louvre windows? Why did you bayonet red-coated Swiss
behind that fair white façade, and, braving cannon, musket, sabre,
perspective guillotine, burst yonder bronze gates, rush through
that peaceful picture-gallery, and hurl royalty, loyalty, and a
thousand years of Kings, head-over-heels out of yonder Tuileries'
windows?

It is, you will allow, a little difficult to say:--there is,
however, ONE benefit that the country has gained (as for liberty of
press, or person, diminished taxation, a juster representation, who
ever thinks of them?)--ONE benefit they have gained, or nearly--
abolition de la peine-de-mort pour délit politique: no more wicked
guillotining for revolutions. A Frenchman must have his revolution--
it is his nature to knock down omnibuses in the street, and across
them to fire at troops of the line--it is a sin to balk it. Did not
the King send off Revolutionary Prince Napoleon in a coach-and-four?
Did not the jury, before the face of God and Justice, proclaim
Revolutionary Colonel Vaudrey not guilty?--One may hope, soon, that
if a man shows decent courage and energy in half a dozen émeutes, he
will get promotion and a premium.

Copyright (c) 2007. famouswriterz.com. All rights reserved.