The Paris Sketch Book of Mr. M. A. Titmarsh Part 4

"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 circ.u.mstances 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 FeTES 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 fetes 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 Revolution, 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 Chateau, 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 mats-de-cocagne in token of grat.i.tude and rejouissance publique!--My dear sir, in their apt.i.tude 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 d.i.c.kens 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 Elysees, 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 fict.i.tious 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 pa.s.s 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 (Sat.u.r.day), 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 Pet.i.ts-Peres), 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 cla.s.s. 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 p.r.o.nounced by the pastors.

"The absence of M. de Quelen (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 c.r.a.pe."

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 MUNIc.i.p.aL 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 Va.s.sal.

"Between eleven and twelve o'clock, some young men, to the number of 400 or 500, a.s.sembled 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 Marche des Innocens. On their arrival, the Munic.i.p.al 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sage 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 d.i.c.kens 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 navete, 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 Munic.i.p.aux, 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 facade, 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 delit 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 G.o.d 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 emeutes, he will get promotion and a premium.

I do not (although, perhaps, partial to the subject,) want to talk more nonsense than the occasion warrants, and will pray you to cast your eyes over the following anecdote, that is now going the round of the papers, and respects the commutation of the punishment of that wretched, fool-hardy Barbes, who, on his trial, seemed to invite the penalty which has just been remitted to him. You recollect the braggart's speech: "When the Indian falls into the power of the enemy, he knows the fate that awaits him, and submits his head to the knife:--I am the Indian!"

"Well--"

"M. Hugo was at the Opera on the night the sentence of the Court of Peers, condemning Barbes to death, was published. The great poet composed the following verses:--

'Par votre ange envolee, ainsi qu'une colombe, Par le royal enfant, doux et frele roseau, Grace encore une fois! Grace au nom de la tombe!

Grace au nom du berceau!'*

"M. Victor Hugo wrote the lines out instantly on a sheet of paper, which he folded, and simply despatched them to the King of the French by the penny-post.

"That truly is a n.o.ble voice, which can at all hours thus speak to the throne. Poetry, in old days, was called the language of the G.o.ds--it is better named now--it is the language of the Kings.

"But the clemency of the King had antic.i.p.ated the letter of the Poet.

His Majesty had signed the commutation of Barbes, while the poet was still writing.

"Louis Philippe replied to the author of 'Ruy Blas' most graciously, that he had already subscribed to a wish so n.o.ble, and that the verses had only confirmed his previous disposition to mercy."

* Translated for the benefit of country gentlemen:--

"By your angel flown away just like a dove, By the royal infant, that frail and tender reed, Pardon yet once more! Pardon in the name of the tomb!

Pardon in the name of the cradle!"

Now in countries where fools most abound, did one ever read of more monstrous, palpable folly? In any country, save this, would a poet who chose to write four crack-brained verses, comparing an angel to a dove, and a little boy to a reed, and calling upon the chief magistrate, in the name of the angel, or dove (the Princess Mary), in her tomb, and the little infant in his cradle, to spare a criminal, have received a "gracious answer" to his nonsense? Would he have ever despatched the nonsense? and would any journalist have been silly enough to talk of "the n.o.ble voice that could thus speak to the throne," and the n.o.ble throne that could return such a n.o.ble answer to the n.o.ble voice? You get nothing done here gravely and decently. Tawdry stage tricks are played, and braggadocio claptraps uttered, on every occasion, however sacred or solemn: in the face of death, as by Barbes with his hideous Indian metaphor; in the teeth of reason, as by M. Victor Hugo with his twopenny-post poetry; and of justice, as by the King's absurd reply to this absurd demand! Suppose the Count of Paris to be twenty times a reed, and the Princess Mary a host of angels, is that any reason why the law should not have its course? Justice is the G.o.d of our lower world, our great omnipresent guardian: as such it moves, or should move on majestic, awful, irresistible, having no pa.s.sions--like a G.o.d: but, in the very midst of the path across which it is to pa.s.s, lo! M. Victor Hugo trips forward, smirking, and says, O divine Justice! I will trouble you to listen to the following trifling effusion of mine:--

Par votre ange envolee, ainsi qu'une," &c.